Irresistible
by Tiffany Park
Summary: SG-3 is ambushed on a soggy planet where humans hold both an irresistible fascination and a nasty surprise for the native carnivores. SG-3 fic: Col. Makepeace, Lt. Johnson, Maj. Warren
1. Chapter 1

TITLE: Irresistible

AUTHOR: Tiffany Park

STATUS: Complete

CATEGORY: Action/Adventure, some whumping

SPOILERS: A couple of very minor ones for "Prisoners," only because I used a character who was introduced in that episode, and mentioned the planet that SG-3 was supposed to recon.

SEASON: Early Season Two, set about a month before "Prisoners."

PAIRINGS: None

RATING: R

CONTENT WARNINGS: Language, violence, nudity.

SUMMARY: SG-3 is ambushed on a soggy planet where humans hold both an irresistible fascination and a nasty surprise for the native carnivores.

ARCHIVE: Just here.

DISCLAIMER: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of Stargate (II) Productions, Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. This story is for entertainment purposes only and no money exchanged hands. No copyright infringement is intended. The original characters, situations, and story are the property of the author. This story may not be posted elsewhere without the consent of the author.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Here be tentacles. Lots of 'em. It's all due to H.P. Lovecraft's influence, I'm sure.

Many thanks to Besterette for the beta and suggestions for tying things together.

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**August 3, 2014**: Okay, this is another ancient fic I wrote waaaay back in 2003 for the MakepeaceSG-3 list. For anyone who might be interested in something so old about some minor characters, enjoy!

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**Irresistible**

**by**

**Tiffany Park**

A large drop of water splashed right on top of Colonel Makepeace's bare head, aggravating the pounding in his skull. A thin trickle of liquid ran non-stop from his hair onto his neck and down his back. The rest of him was similarly soaked. He hunched his shoulders against the damp of the temperate rain forest, and pulled up the hood of his rain jacket to try to slow the water down. Despite its hype, even the Gore-Tex rain suit couldn't keep out this much persistent moisture.

The temperature was reasonably warm, in the low to mid seventies Fahrenheit. The SGC scientists who had analyzed the early MALP data had insisted this was summer here—the so-called "dry" season, at least in this region of the planet. Hard to believe. Water constantly dripped from the heavy, brownish-green vegetation, accumulated from the irritating, never-ending mist that drifted down from above. Makepeace hated to think what the "wet" season might be like.

To add injury to insult, a cloud of flying insect-like creatures buzzed around him relentlessly. He slapped at an audacious bug that landed right in the center of his chest. The bugs had been a continual problem from the moment of his arrival on P1Y-233. They seemed to love humans and not even industrial strength insect repellent could keep them away. However, his physical discomfort was the least of his problems.

The aliens were the biggest.

Ten of them surrounded him, marching him through the woods. Not even vaguely humanoid, they evoked a visceral fear deep within him that he had trouble controlling.

The aliens didn't have any "front" or "back"; their bodies were cylindrical, tapering at the top to a dome. Near the crown a series of gill-like slits pulsed with an obscene rhythm. The creatures' mottled green skins were textured with vertical ridges and covered in thick, transparent mucous that shed the ever-present moisture far better than his own protective clothing. At such close proximity, their indefinable odor tickled Makepeace's gag reflex without actually triggering it.

Strange designs of lines and whorls and puckered circles ornamented their skins. Makepeace thought the scarring looked deliberate, the way some human cultures he'd read about in college used scarification as body decoration. The aliens were tall; the shortest was roughly seven feet—a foot taller than himself. The tallest alien in the group topped nine feet, and none of them appeared to have anything resembling a mouth.

They did have limbs, though. A set of six flexible tentacles ringed the creatures at their midsections. Thickest where it joined the body—as thick as his own forearm—each arm split into three, which in turn split three-ways again. From the way the aliens gripped their varied weapons—things that looked like spears, spear-throwers, knives or swords, slings and rocks—it was obvious that the split tentacles functioned like hands and fingers. The aliens walked—slithered?—along on a set of shorter, stubbier tentacles. The movement reminded him of a caterpillar's crawl, but quicker, more efficient. He knew from first-hand experience that the damned things could move lightning fast when they wanted to.

But the worst part was their eyes. At least he thought they were eyes. Each creature was crowned with six stalked orbs that could retract and swivel independently of one another; thin, crinkled membranes sheathed the pupilless globes, could blink them shut. Every eye the color of blood, staring at him without winking... He shuddered.

Two of the aliens carried his gear; his pack, his vest, his canteens, knife, and pistol. He supposed he ought to be grateful he still had the clothes on his back. These creatures had certainly been curious enough about his stuff. He didn't see his carbine and assumed it had been lost when he was taken. What he wouldn't give to feel its weight, to put it into auto mode and cut these obscene alien monstrosities to ribbons, lob a few grenades into their midst and blow them to pieces...

There came a rustling from the wet, round leaves overhead, and several flying creatures with thin, prehensile proboscises swooped down, straight at him. Makepeace ducked, cursing at them and at the way the sudden movement worsened his headache, as the aliens made clicking and whistling noises and waved their tentacles to drive the birdlike things away.

At least aggressive birds weren't as bad as some of the nightmares this world had to offer. Earlier, some *_thing_* out in the forest had been paralleling the group—something pale green, gelatinous and flowing and quivering like a hellish blob of Jell-O. Makepeace only caught a brief glimpse; it was more than enough to make something primal in the back of his brain gibber with near-insanity. The aliens had freaked, formed a tight circle around him, launched missiles of rock and sharpened wood at that half-seen *_thing_* until it seeped away.

He couldn't help but wonder at all the attention he attracted, from bugs to birds to mystery monsters stalking in the woods. Did he really smell that edible to so many of this world's critters? He assumed it was smell; he didn't know what else could fascinate the wildlife so much. Obviously, this wasn't normal forest behavior; from the disturbed and frankly edgy way the aliens behaved, Makepeace figured they were unaccustomed to having so many animals prowling along with them.

More bird-things dived at him, thin feelers waving above their tiny elephant trunks, stalked eyes focused on their prey. The aliens chased them off. Taking advantage of the confusion, one of his captors moved in close and groped at him. Makepeace shied away, slapping a probing tentacle away from his mouth. Another alien grabbed the first and pulled it aside, hissing through its breathing flaps.

That sort of thing had been a recurring problem on the long trek through the rain forest. Every so often one or another of the aliens would cop a feel. Most of the time they were happy with a few touches, but sometimes, like now, they had to be forcibly removed from his vicinity. Makepeace wasn't certain what the big appeal was, and dreaded finding out the answer. He hoped it was just his novelty—it was a cinch these beings had never encountered anything like a human before. He prayed that he didn't smell as tasty to these creatures as he obviously did to the bugs and wildlife, and that his ultimate destination wasn't a stew pot.

His fingers twitched; once again he wished for his carbine, lost during the ambush. SG-3 had been on P1Y-233 for roughly six hours before they were attacked—enough time to get too far from the Stargate to make a strategic retreat. He wondered if the party of natives had planned it that way. Their choice of weapons didn't seem to indicate much technological sophistication, but they had been plenty smart enough to scatter the hapless humans and take him prisoner, hadn't they? They had been invisible in the alien forest, their natural element. Makepeace didn't know what had happened to the rest of his team, but at least they weren't captives along with him. He touched his forehead, wincing as he felt the lump there. The aliens had caught him by knocking him senseless with a well-aimed rock.

Makepeace deliberately stopped walking. He was given a hard shove from behind, and stumbled forward. The gravity here was slightly lighter than Earth's, just different enough to throw off a man's balance and judgment, making ordinary footsteps precarious, and he fell flat on his face. He pushed himself onto his knees, and broke a few branches on the brambles before slimy tentacles yanked him back to his feet.

It was a deadly serious game he played with his captors: Every so often he dragged his butt, got shoved, and stumbled as clumsily as possible. As a result he was able to do a little something to mark the trail they were taking. He was also making sure to leave as many clear boot prints as he could manage. With luck, the aliens wouldn't catch on to him too soon, and his men should be able to track his movements.

Assuming they were still alive.


	2. Chapter 2

Major Eugene Warren grimaced as he felt another tiny pair of mandibles chomp into the damp skin of his neck. He barely restrained himself from swatting at the offending bug, reminding himself that it was more important to stay concealed in the wet and foul-smelling brush, and that careless movement could give him away. Mentally, he cursed the screwed-up mission, this godforsaken planet, and especially Lieutenant Johnson. Here he was, on the run and mucking around on what had to be the wettest, muddiest, slimiest world in the whole entire universe, all because Johnson got clumsy and broke his arm skiing.

Talk about terrible timing.

Well, terrible for himself. It was great timing for Johnson, Warren thought resentfully as he tried to ignore the cloud of bugs buzzing around him. At this very moment the lucky lieutenant was probably sitting at a cushy desk on the base, or maybe even lounging around on his couch at home, watching videos, drinking beer, and eating junk food.

At first, Warren had been pleased when Colonel Makepeace had tagged him to fill in for Johnson. He appreciated the compliment on his competence, and had hoped to impress the colonel enough to become a regular alternate for the team. He absolutely loved this gig, visiting other worlds; loved fulfilling old childhood fantasies of manned space exploration nurtured by NASA and scuttled by Congress and the White House.

He'd never been out with SG-3 before, but he'd enjoyed the times he'd been off-world training, and then his missions with the team he'd been assigned to, SG-5. This trip out had originally looked like more of the same. A nice, routine recon mission, with no human settlements or Goa'uld strongholds identified. Just take a look-see, get some videos, collect some samples of whatever looked interesting.

Utter disaster hadn't been in the playbook. Johnson, Warren decided, must be psychic.

"Quit yer bitchin'," he muttered to himself, "and concentrate on finding the rest of the team."

Not for the first time, he fingered his radio. He'd avoided using it because he'd been afraid that the sound would give away his teammates' positions—not to mention his own. He told himself that was why no one had tried to contact him. He didn't want to think about the alternative.

He strained his ears, listening. The shadowy, alien forest around him was alive with sound: soft patters of tiny raindrops on foliage, water dripping from the leaves, chirps and chitters from unnamable creatures, and strange, unnerving rustlings. He heard nothing that might warn of the presence of the hostile natives, no shrill whistlings or growling calls. But then, he hadn't heard anything suspicious before the attack, either.

He decided to move, head back closer to the place they'd been ambushed. With luck, his teammates would have the same bright idea, and they could regroup with a minimum of noise and fuss. Crouched low, Warren gripped his SAW and crept forward. As always when things got tight, the weight of the light machine gun comforted him. The M249 Squad Automatic Weapon fired 5.56mm ammo at a rate of almost a thousand rounds a minute. Burning through its 200-round belt in a little over sixteen seconds, it could cut through just about anything this planet could throw at him.

If he knew where to aim it.

That had been his problem during the attack. The spears and rocks and other projectiles had come from everywhere at once. He'd never even gotten a glimpse of the aliens and, like the rest of his teammates, had fired blindly, hoping that the noise and barrage of lead might do some damage, or at least scare off their assailants.

Nice plan in theory. Too bad it hadn't worked. The aliens had used some kind of noxious smoke and moved in. Makepeace's shouted orders had cut off abruptly. The gas blinded the Marines, made their eyes and noses and mouths run with mucous and fluid, choked off their breathing, churned in their stomachs. They had scattered to take what cover they could, before the aliens overwhelmed them all.

That was the last Warren had seen of his new teammates.

He set his feet carefully as he moved to minimize his disturbance of the moss and detritus of the forest floor, the sound of his passing, and the size of his footprints. Pushing aside an inconveniently low branch covered with wet, brownish-green leaves, he stepped between an enormous rotting log and clumps of dripping bracken. He felt dwarfed by the huge tree trunks looming all around. A land rover could easily fit inside some of those monsters. He thought wistfully of the giant redwoods of California. If a tree had to be that damn big, it ought to at least be pretty. Here, the forest was like something out of a horror novel. The trees' glistening, blackish-brown bark twisted in grotesque patterns of whorls that reminded him of intestines, and everywhere were low bushes, fern-like plants, moss, fungal growths, and slimy patches of algae.

He glanced around nervously. The low, filtered light, the misty rain, and the unending dripping were getting on his nerves.

Something black and yellow exploded out of the brush and flew at him, screeching.

Warren yelped and jumped back.

His feet slipped on the slick moss. Made too clumsy by P1Y-233's lighter gravity to recover his balance in time, he crashed through ferns and bushes and tumbled down a muddy slope. He hit the bottom with a wet splash.

It took him a moment to recover his wits, then he pushed himself to his feet. He had landed in a shallow pool of water, and was now soaking wet and covered in thick, algae-clogged mud. Just his luck. Grimacing, he brushed ineffectually at his clothes. At least he wasn't hurt beyond a few scratches and bruises. Only his pride had been dented. He groaned suddenly as he realized he'd managed to lose his SAW during the fall. In spite of the lower gravity, it couldn't have gone far. He scanned the area and spotted the gun a little off to one side on the slope.

With a deep sigh, he readjusted his pack, then marched over, picked up the gun, and slung it over one shoulder. The familiar weight settled comfortably. Then he climbed back up the slope.

He reached the top and stopped to stare at the torn ferns and broken bushes. Now, that was a clearly marked trail. He'd done quite a bit of damage when he fell, hadn't he? So much for stealth. Still, there was a silver lining to his little misadventure; he was confident that the aliens weren't tracking him. Had any been around, they would certainly have nailed him while he was floundering in the muck.

Lucky him.

He started walking again. He hadn't gone more than a hundred paces when a hand clamped around his mouth and dragged him down into the brush. His nascent panic stilled when a voice hissed in his ear, "Shhhh—it's okay, sir."

He nodded, and the hand was removed. Warren took a deep breath, turned his head and looked straight into Gunnery Sergeant Andrews's hazel eyes. He hadn't even heard the man's approach over the ambient noise of the forest. Snipers were sneaky bastards, he thought with some admiration.

"I don't think any of the aliens are around," Warren said. He kept his voice low, just in case.

"After all the racket you made? Shit, yeah," Andrews said, just as quietly. "Half the planet probably heard you. We need to move."

Warren winced guiltily at the rebuke. He got the gunnery sergeant's assessment of him from his tone: FNG. Mil-speak for "fucking new guy", the newbie who didn't know the ropes or how the group operated, who needed babysitting to keep him from screwing up and getting everyone killed. The only reason no one had given him any grief was because he was a major; he outranked Andrews and Henderson, but he knew the attitude was there.

He inhaled and asked, "What about the others?"

"I left Henderson in a hide about a quarter-mile thataways," Andrews replied with a tiny jerk of his head toward a particularly dense area of the forest. Staying crouched low, he moved forward.

Warren followed him. "What about Colonel Makepeace?"

"Don't know yet."

Warren frowned. He didn't like the sergeant's tone. "What's wrong?"

"Not here, sir. Let's get somewhere safer."

Warren shut up. With a sinking sensation, he remembered the way Makepeace's voice had cut off during the ambush. Shit.

The two men moved silently through the woods, taking a circuitous path in an attempt to confuse any possible pursuers. They crept through wet, slimy underbrush and detoured around giant knots of roots. Warren could have sworn that some of those clumps were moving ever so slightly—almost as if they were breathing. Unable to shake a bad case of the creeps, he twitched at every rustle of leaves.

Finally, they reached the hide. It was a small depression in the muddy earth, partially sheltered beneath a fallen tree and bordered by thick clumps of red-brown ferns. The forest debris filling the hole suddenly heaved. Warren inhaled sharply.

Covered with leaves and twigs and looking like some kind of marsh monster, Henderson stood, lowering his rifle. "'Bout time you got back," he hissed at Andrews. "This place gives me the willies. I see you found the major, at least. Hello, sir. Still all in one piece?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Thanks."

"Looks like you got yourself a gillie-suit, sir."

Warren looked down at himself. Greenish-brown mud still caked his rain suit, which was also festooned with grasses and fronds. "Took a fall."

"And made the devil's own noise while he was at it," Andrews grumbled. He made a rude noise that sounded a lot like "Officers," then added, "Made it easy to find him, at least." He ignored Warren's scowl and asked, "How's the home front?"

"Been quiet, except for the blasted bugs. No sign of the bad guys, not that I'd know what they looked like even if they smacked me in the face," said Henderson, as he brushed leaves from his clothes. He added, "No sign of the colonel, either."

Andrews grunted, sounding unsurprised by that intelligence. Warren eyed him. "You were going to tell me what was bothering you, remember? Something about Colonel Makepeace?"

"Yeah." Andrews rubbed his forehead. "I think the bad guys got him."

Warren had been afraid of that. "You sure?"

"No, sir. We need to go back to the site of the ambush and get a better look around."

"All right," Warren decided, "let's go check it out."


	3. Chapter 3

The three Marines cautiously made their way back to the ambush site. Rustles, clicks, and chitters stalked the men every step of the way. Insects swarmed about them, unidentifiable flying creatures swooped and darted above their heads. Five times the men stopped, eyes nervously surveying the too-dense brush and trees, ears straining, weapons held ready to fire. Something lurked out there, something that made Warren's hackles rise, something that made Andrews and Henderson finger the triggers of their rifles, but they could find nothing to aim at. Whatever it was, it paced with them, hunted them, but it never showed itself.

At last they reached the ambush site, an area thick with lush foliage, red and brown and green, and an abundance of dead wood rotting into mud. An enormous tree had toppled here, making a break in the canopy overhead and letting in a little light. Warren looked up, wincing against the perpetual mist that fell from the sky, seeing only heavy gray clouds. He wondered what color the sky was on a clear day, then wondered if the sky ever cleared.

The men spread out, keeping in mind that something, probably many somethings, out in the forest thought they might make a tasty lunch. They stayed in sight of one another, Warren keeping watch while Andrews and Henderson searched, all hoping and praying the traces hadn't been obliterated by the incessant moisture.

"I got something," Henderson called suddenly. He held up an M4 carbine with mounted grenade launcher—Makepeace's weapon of choice. "Wherever the boss-man is, he ain't armed no more."

"Maybe he's still got his sidearm," Warren said, frowning, "or his knife."

"Not if the boogie men have any sense, he don't. I'd take everything away from a prisoner, just to be on the safe side."

"At least the natives don't have that toy to play with," Andrews commented sourly.

"They probably don't even know what it is, other than a noisemaker," Henderson said. "Least, I hope they don't."

Andrews grunted his disbelief at that piece of misplaced optimism, got down on his hands and knees, and slowly crawled over the area, unmindful of the mud and moss. "Here. The boss was here."

Warren could see the damage to the springy undergrowth, sprigs bent and even broken in places, plus a few partial boot prints and a smear on the ground that ended abruptly, like a body had been dragged then lifted. There were also confusing serpentine marks in the soft earth, as though snakes had nested in the area. "What the hell are those?"

Andrews straightened. He held a wet, floppy-brimmed boonie, the standard cover for jungle operations that they all wore. "Dunno, but I don't like the looks of 'em. Whatever these things are, looks like they got the boss." He twirled Makepeace's hat on a finger, pointed with his chin off to one side. "They went thataway."

"Well, what are we waiting for?" Henderson asked. He slung Makepeace's carbine it over his shoulder, then gestured at the woods with his own M4. "Let's go find him."

Warren hesitated, wondering if maybe reinforcements weren't in order. Problem was, the Stargate was over six hours away, assuming nothing molested them and slowed them down. His first instinct was to send one of his men back to the gate to call for help, and keep searching with the other. He rejected the idea immediately; this place was far too dangerous, too alien, for one man alone. Yet, if the whole team went back, precious time would be lost. It might be a day or more before help arrived and they could start the search again. Anything could happen to Makepeace in the meantime, assuming he was even alive at this point.

Andrews and Henderson were watching him, their faces impassive, revealing nothing. Water dripped off leaves, pooled in the softening tread marks of Makepeace's boot prints. Warren took a deep breath, made the only decision possible: "All right, let's go get him back."

The two enlisted men suddenly grinned, looking relieved. "Yes, sir!" Henderson said, and immediately headed into the brush. Andrews gave Warren an encouraging pat on the shoulder and gestured him to go next. As he moved into the forest, Warren realized that they didn't know him, hadn't known how the FNG would react. Now it seemed they had finally passed judgment on him. He belatedly wondered if any other decision would have blacklisted him with them forever. It was a sobering thought, but moot now.

With excruciating slowness, the three Marines crept through the rain forest. They stepped with care to avoid damaging the trail, to keep quiet and stealthy, and to avoid falling over their own feet when the unfamiliar gravity confused their brains and threw off their balance. The thick mud sucked at their boots, brambles clawed at their clothes, the air stank of decay. Clouds of tiny bugs flitted about them, lighting and biting any exposed skin they could find. To make matters worse, Warren again got the sense that something silent and invisible was stalking them. He kept his light machine gun ready, noticed that Andrews and Henderson were also hyper-alert. They nodded when he warned them of his suspicions.

The path they followed was creepy enough, delineated as it was by those same slithery marks that they had seen before. What the hell were these things? At some point the aliens must have let Makepeace start walking on his own, for boot prints could be seen occasionally amid the snake tracks, half dissolving in the drizzle.

The brush slowly cleared and gave way, and the Marines found themselves on a narrow trail. "Probably a hunting trail," Andrews commented. "Looks like it gets used often enough to keep the weeds back." They found another partial boot print, and continued on.

Now that they had a clearer path, they made better time. The boot prints were distinct, as though Makepeace had been stepping deliberately to make his trail as clear as possible. After another half-hour Henderson called a halt. "Look at this."

Andrews fingered the broken branch. "This is one hell of an obvious trail marker," he said slowly. "Even more than the boot prints."

"Why are they letting him get away with it?" Warren asked.

Andrews shrugged. "Hell, I don't know. Maybe they don't track like us. They might use scent markers, or see in infrared, or something even weirder."

"Or maybe the colonel isn't marking the trail for us at all. Maybe it's a trap," Henderson said sourly, "and we're dumb enough to follow it."

Warren scowled at that idea. "Wouldn't Makepeace find a way to let us know, make a do-not-follow sign?"

Andrews nodded. "Yeah, if he could," he said slowly. "If he knew what was up with the aliens. But he expects us to use our heads, too. He knows we're not normally trusting types. We got blindsided before, 'cause we're too damn used to finding Goa'uld strongholds and human settlements near the Stargates, and didn't stop to think there might be alien hostiles lurking around who don't give diddly-squat about putting up pretty monuments. That won't happen again." He shifted his grip on his rifle and moved into the lead.

Henderson took a last look around then followed him. Warren hefted his machine gun and scanned the woods. He started after Henderson, covering the rear, watching the wet, alien vegetation for any sign of trouble.


	4. Chapter 4

The misty rain had finally taken a break. Makepeace shook his head to keep the bugs from his eyes. Water sprayed from his hair and skin, and then he got shoved, hard. He stumbled forward into a clearing.

It was roughly oval, and maybe fifty feet across at its widest point. Surrounded by trees and dense underbrush, it had been invisible until he had been pushed into it. To his eyes, it looked like a temporary encampment of some kind. Large canopies that reminded him of camouflage netting sheltered half the area. Drapes of netting clotted with moss hung suspended from tree branches and were secured to the ground to form conical, tent-like structures. Smoothed-off stumps and flat rounds of wood acted as crude tables, holding weapons and other objects he couldn't identify.

More of the revolting aliens were clustered on the other end of the clearing, away from the shelters. Makepeace didn't know if that was odd or not. He counted fifteen of them, and they seemed to be preoccupied with something. When the ambush party emerged from the forest, and Makepeace had been driven front and center, the aliens left the object of their fascination to check out their comrades' trophy.

Seeing them approach, Makepeace balked, and received another shove between his shoulder blades for his lack of cooperation. He tripped over his own feet and fell awkwardly, landed on his side too hard. The gravity here might be marginally lighter than Earth's, but it wasn't light enough to keep a graceless fall like that from hurting. Wincing, he rubbed his ribs as he sat up.

The aliens ringed him, and for a moment their combined stench almost overpowered him. They stared at him with those disgusting red eyeballs, making excited whistling and chattering noises. He saw that all bore those circular scars, in addition to more elaborate patterns of scarring that had to be deliberate. Tentacles reached down, all around, brushing against him.

"Get away from me, dammit!" He struck out, trying to keep the aliens away from him. Several of the ambush group clicked and belched, and moved between him and the groping creatures.

Painfully, he stood up, holding his side. What now? He couldn't make a run for it, not with the aliens encircling him.

Two of the creatures dumped his gear on the ground. They couldn't keep their paws—tentacles—off the stuff. He watched, fuming and impotent, as they tore open his pack and scattered its contents. They picked through the MREs, playing with the plastic and cardboard. Unrolled his tent and sleeping bag. Passed his spare clothes around. Made a mess of the rest of his gear: GDO, rope, hygiene kit, binoculars, radio, canteens, compass, explosives... It all became a source of amusement and near-hypnotic fascination for them.

The sight made him forget the smell and his aches. As he watched, several aliens toyed with his weapons, tossing grenades and loaded magazines back and forth. He gritted his teeth, longing for the pistol that one of the creatures pointed at its own body in its ignorance. So close, so far beyond his reach. He hoped the damned thing shot itself.

A blood-curdling shriek disrupted the party. The aliens stopped playing with his stuff, fixed their attention on the opposite end of the camp. Makepeace craned his neck, striving to get a glimpse of whatever was back there.

He saw a large cage that was almost as tall as he was, and made of wooden crosspieces bound together with heavy rope. It held a creature straight out of a nightmare: black, with masses of writhing tentacles, rows of demonic green eyes, and a flabby, bulbous sac of a body. It glistened as though wet, or covered with slime like his alien captors. It quivered and glowered through the bars of its cage, its baleful glare promising death—or worse—to any being stupid enough to approach too closely.

"What the fuck is that?" he gasped, taking a few steps back. Whatever that shrieking horror was, he didn't want to get any closer to it. He watched it rattle the bars in its ineffectual rage, and thanked God that the cage was well-constructed, that the nightmare thing couldn't get out.

The aliens whistled and clicked. Makepeace got the idea that they were jeering at it. The impression was confirmed when a few of the aliens flung small rocks and sticks at the cage. The black monster screamed again, throwing itself violently against the bars, stretching its tentacles out toward its tormentors. Makepeace saw hook-lined suckers on the undersides of the animal's appendages, and suddenly realized how the aliens must have gotten their circular scars.

After a few minutes the aliens tired of the sport and returned their attention to his gear and, unfortunately, himself as well. One held up his spare BDU blouse, then touched his sleeve and arm, making the connection. It wound its tentacles around the fabric and tugged. Cursing, Makepeace barely caught his balance. The thing tugged again and again, harder and harder, and finally in self-defense Makepeace shed his rain jacket and handed it over. "Here, it's yours," he growled. "Now leave me alone, will you?"

His tee-shirt made a poor protection against the wet weather; although the mist had stopped, a cloying dampness pervaded the air. The alien uttered a strange chittering sound. Makepeace watched it fondle the articles of clothing, comparing the fabrics and design. It swiveled two of its eyestalks from the clothes to him and back again. "Yeah, that's right," he said to the creature. "Clothes. I know you don't wear them, but—"

Another alien flapped his extra pair of pants. "Oh, no you don't," Makepeace snarled. He discovered, though, that he had no say in the matter. The aliens were incredibly strong, and they had more appendages than he did. Tentacles were everywhere, holding him, binding his arms and legs, stripping away everything that would come off. He did his damnedest to at least keep his shorts, clutching the waistband for dear life, but the over-curious aliens forced his hands away and peeled off the last of his clothing. They only stopped when nothing more could be removed. He stood there, in the center of the circle of gawking, inhuman things, naked as the day he was born.

He wrapped his arms around himself, not sure why he bothered. At least the weather was warm, so he didn't feel chilled. The bugs were having a field day with all his newly exposed skin. He muttered curses with every bite, while the aliens took their time examining and comparing his clothing. Distantly, he wondered what they made of it. Did they think they had removed some outer layer of his skin, or did they understand the clothes were an artificial protection against the elements?

The bugs were driving him insane. "Okay, you've had your fun, now give me back my clothes, okay?" He held out his hands. The aliens regarded him with inscrutable, blood-tinted eyes. He pointed at the pants and shirts they held, then gestured back at himself. Hoping they'd understand, somehow. They clicked and whistled, and handed the clothing over to another alien. He watched in silent misery as the creature carried his rain suit and BDUs away.

Then the aliens crowded close again, too close, their tentacles touching him gently, leaving thin slime trails on his bare skin. He desperately tried to wrestle down his panic, telling himself they were just examining him, not hurting him, that they were only curious. And what if they decide to dissect you? a perverse little voice whispered in his head.

They were certainly tenacious—as tenacious as the bugs, the birds, the forest animals, every damn thing on this planet that thought he smelled delicious and wanted to eat him. A tentacle squeezed his arm, and he couldn't help wondering if it was testing his flesh the way he would squeeze a fruit to check its ripeness. He clenched his jaw, fighting nausea and revulsion and terror, as innumerable feelers ranged over his body, probing his head, his arms, his chest and abdomen, his—

"Hey!" he snapped, suddenly outraged, slapping at tentacles and biting bugs. "Not on the first date—"

One of the creatures whistled shrilly and fluttered its tentacles on the ground at his feet. The other aliens stopped what they were doing. Makepeace watched, relieved but confused. The alien held up several bugs of different varieties. All looked dead.

Makepeace glanced down. Dead bugs ringed the ground where he stood. As a half-formed, startling idea began to take shape, another bug lit on his arm. Instead of flicking it away, he grit his teeth and just watched it. He winced at the sharp pinch of its bite, then the bug twitched, dropped off him and joined its unmoving brethren in the dirt.

Damn. Not only did he smell delicious, but he was toxic as hell, at least for the bugs. He should have noticed that before. Probably would have, he admitted wryly, if he hadn't been quite so preoccupied. He wondered if there might be some way to use this to his advantage.

His captors hadn't missed the death of the bug, and now they clicked and hissed among themselves. Makepeace noticed that, although they still surrounded him, they had backed off slightly. Good. Maybe if they believed him death on the hoof they'd leave him alone. Then again, the unpleasant flip side of that status was that they might consider him to be an unacceptable risk and simply kill him outright.

An alien whose body was covered with swirling designs moved forward. It gestured and whistled. The other creatures shut up and gave it their attention. Makepeace thought it might be a chief or witch doctor, or maybe even a wildlife expert. Who could tell? Whatever it was, it seemed to have some kind of authority. Its body decorations were the most elaborate he'd seen thus far, with large numbers of those circular scars interspersed throughout, and the other aliens seemed to defer to it.

The leader slithered away. When it returned, it carried a small cage made of thin sticks of wood, that held the biggest damn bug Makepeace had seen so far on this misbegotten planet. The leader removed the lid from the cage.

"No way!" Makepeace exclaimed when the alien held out the open cage and approached him. He stepped back. "I don't care how curious you are, no way am I letting that thing near me."

The leader let out a sharp whistle. Several creatures wrapped their tentacles around Makepeace. He struggled and cursed, but the rubbery appendages tightened like iron. Another tentacle coiled around his arm and forced it out. The leader shook the bug out onto Makepeace's forearm.

The bug was about the size of a small tarantula. Its wrinkled, loose-skinned body had four round segments, including its fanged, six-eyed head. Twelve legs were divided evenly among the middle two segments. It was brown, with jagged purple and green stripes on its globular abdomen. Makepeace prayed it wasn't poisonous. Small comfort it would be to see the bug die after biting him if it meant his own death as well.

The bug danced excitedly on his arm before settling on a spot to sample. Helpless, Makepeace braced himself, but couldn't hold back a moan of pain and revulsion when the thing finally sank its fangs through his skin.

Blood welled up from the wound. The spider-creature backed off and shivered, drawing its legs tight against its body. Then, like its smaller cousins, it dropped to the ground and lay motionless. Dead.

The creatures all clicked and whistled. The noise sounded a little hysterical to Makepeace's ears, but he told himself not to judge an alien species by human standards. Nonetheless, the aliens were clearly agitated. A few drops of blood fell from the bite wound. The creature holding his arm abruptly released him and leaped back, its tentacles and eye stalks moving in frantic waves. The other creatures around him shifted their hold to avoid the blood and the wound, but didn't let go of him.

The leader whistled again, several sharp, authoritative notes. The other aliens gave it their attention. The whole group then appeared to have a town meeting, with various creatures speaking and interrupting each other. Makepeace figured they were discussing what to do with him. He rather hoped they'd decide he was too dangerous to keep around and let him go. He didn't really expect such a benign outcome, though.

While he waited, he stayed alert for signs of poisoning. Nothing so far. He knew his pulse and respiration were elevated, but that was normal for such a stressful situation. He didn't feel sick or weak, so it looked like the spider-thing hadn't poisoned him. Thank God for small favors.

The meeting abruptly ended. The creatures now regarded him with what he could only describe as speculation. He was filled with a deep suspicion. Whatever they had in mind, he was sure he wasn't going to like it.

His jailers tugged him toward the far side of the clearing. At first he let them lead him, until he realized they were approaching the cage that held that obscene horror they had captured, and he started struggling in earnest. The aliens merely tightened their coils until they cut off his circulation, and forced him forward.

They stopped about ten feet away from the cage. Black tentacles slithered and shifted, revealing rows of leprous green eyes, as the monster became aware of the group. It regarded them sullenly for a moment, then the thing screamed and burst into frenzied life, slamming its body against the cage, thrusting its tentacles through the bars at a clear goal.

Makepeace gasped, felt his heart leap into his throat. That thing was trying to get at him! He tried to back away from it, his bare feet slipping in the mud. The aliens held him firmly in place. After a few terrifying moments, it became clear that the black monster couldn't reach him, that the cage was strong enough to keep the creature trapped.

He panted, failing to get his reactions under control. His heart was pounding its way out of his chest. Why the hell did every animal on this planet want to eat him? Dear God, why? An unearthly howl made him jerk and look up in panic. The monster wrapped a number of its tentacles around the bars and pressed itself against the cage. The way it stared at him made his skin crawl. There was a malign intelligence in that unwinking green gaze.

The aliens chittered excitedly among themselves. Obviously, they found the monster's reaction intriguing, but Makepeace was shocked and horrified by it.

The leader chattered and gesticulated. It held in one of its arms a long, flattened piece of shiny black stone—perhaps obsidian, Makepeace guessed. The stone had been chipped and shaped like a primitive knife, with both edges looking dangerously sharp.

The leader came to stand uncomfortably close to Makepeace. It ran several of its appendages over his body, probing and squeezing the flesh. It settled on a spot in the middle of his right thigh, and lifted the knife.

"God damn you! Get that thing away from me!" Makepeace shouted. He twisted desperately against the tentacles that held him in place, kicking out and managing to knock the knife from the alien's grip.

The leader made a sharp, angry sounding buzz. The other creatures gripped Makepeace more tightly and forced him down into the stinking mud, first to his knees, then onto his back. Tentacles wrapped around both his legs, holding them immobile.

The leader retrieved its weapon and bent over Makepeace's thigh. Makepeace cried out in pain as the knife sliced into his flesh.

The leader straightened and held up its prize: a small piece of dripping skin and flesh, about two inches long, an inch wide, and a quarter inch thick, stuck onto the end of the knife.

Makepeace was allowed to rise. He swallowed a few times against pain, disgust, and roiling nausea, and told himself to be grateful that the alien leader hadn't cut off anything more...essential. Lacking the coating of mucous that protected the aliens, he was covered in the slimy mud. His leg was killing him. He looked down at the injury, seeing the raw, bleeding flesh, noting with detachment that it was relatively shallow and should heal okay given time. The wound throbbed to the beat of his pulse, and blood ran freely down his leg.

At the messy sight, the other creatures clacked and hissed, most keeping their distance from him. Even the aliens that held Makepeace kept their appendages away from the wound. The leader took up a long stick and used the knife to thrust the meat onto one pointed end. Then, holding the stick by the other end, it extended the bloody offering to the cage.

The monster within exploded into violent activity, thrusting its tentacles through the bars, its flabby body undulating in excitement. It snatched the meat off the stick and passed it through the masses of feelers, toward the base of its body. Makepeace got a brief glimpse of a flexible round maw lined with needle-sharp teeth. He shivered.

The monster made a peculiar popping noise, like bubbles of gas escaping a tar pit. It shuddered. Its tentacles coiled up tightly against its body-sac, then it seemed to collapse in on itself. The seconds ticked by, and finally it stopped quivering and lay still, an inert mound of rubbery black flesh.

The alien leader prodded it with the stick. No response. The monster was dead.

The assembled aliens let out a chorus of whistles, hisses, and clicks. Makepeace could swear they were cheering. He gathered that the monster was some kind of enemy to these people—perhaps its kind preyed upon them, perhaps they competed for food or territory. Maybe they just hated it for no good reason at all. Who knew? Whatever problem they had with it, they were glad to see it die.

He wondered what this all meant for him.

The leader chattered and gestured again. The natives dragged Makepeace off to one side of the cage, to stand near the edge of a pit dug into the earth. It looked to be about eight feet wide and twenty feet deep. He thought that maybe this was where the aliens had planned to incarcerate their pet monster, before they had found such a novel way to dispose of it.

One of the creatures secured the end of a rope to a nearby tree, then kicked the rest of the coil into the hole. Makepeace was nudged forward. He stared down into the pit, then back at his captors. They crowded against him, forcing him closer to the edge. Clearly, he could climb down the rope, or be pushed in. Not wanting to break any bones, he chose the rope.

He almost regretted that choice. Using a standard rope-climbing technique, he'd looped the rope around his foot and his legs to support his weight as he climbed down. Unfortunately, the rope was so prickly it scratched and cut his skin. He got down most of the way, then let go and dropped to the ground to spare his limbs any further abuse.

Probably, the aliens hadn't meant to be cruel. Makepeace thought those prickles were pragmatic for their species, allowing them to get some traction through their protective layers of mucous. Nonetheless, the rope had done a number on his bare skin.

Resigned, he watched it slither up and out of the pit. With nothing better to do, he inspected his new home. Like the clearing above, the pit was wet and muddy. The walls were bare earth and slick as snot; he tried to get a handhold but the dirt came loose in his hand. It didn't look like he'd be able to climb out unaided, at least not without causing a cave-in and getting himself buried. He looked up just in time to see the aliens drop a lattice of crisscrossed bars of wood over the top of the pit and secure it. Wall-climbing became moot. He was caged in.

Wonderful.

At least there weren't as many bugs down here. The cloud that hovered around him had noticeably diminished. Maybe when the rest of them bit him and died, he'd get a little peace.

He checked the knife wound on his thigh, and saw that it had almost stopped bleeding. It oozed clear fluid, and looked like it would scab over okay given half a chance, but this planet was a cesspool. Who knew what crap might have gotten into the wound?

Then again, could any of the local germs even survive in his body? He seemed to be poison to everything else. He was probably in more danger from the Earth bacteria and viruses he carried around on his own skin.

Suddenly, the thunder of weapons' fire interrupted his ruminations. It was distant, but unmistakable—bursts from an M4 carbine. He grinned, feeling a surge of relief. At least one member of his team had survived. Then came the chatter of an M249 Squad Automatic Weapon, the light machine gun that Major Warren had carried on this little jaunt. Then silence.

His smile faded as he thought about what the gunfire meant. Something must have cornered his team, forcing them to shoot and give up their location. That was bad news. The aliens might get the drop on them. Again. At least this time his men already knew about the danger.

A rustling sound came from overhead. He looked up, and saw the aliens covering the pit with branches and loose brush, most likely to hide it from discovery. They obviously wanted to hang onto him. Makepeace swore to himself that all the camouflage in the world wouldn't do them any good; if he heard his team, he'd make as big a ruckus as he could manage so they'd find him.

The natives finished their work; the pit darkened as the camo blocked out the light. The area above grew quiet, as though the aliens had left the vicinity of the hole. Makepeace figured that was too good to be true; they had probably left a guard or two on duty. Not that it mattered; given the pit's construction, he wasn't going anywhere. For a little while, silence reigned. Makepeace spent the time depressing himself, contemplating his situation. A large, wet drop splashed on his shoulder. Another landed on his head. A few more splattered nearby. Then Makepeace heard a heavy pattering on the leaves and wood covering the pit.

"Crap," he muttered. Water dripped from the ceiling, trickled down the walls into the mud. Leaves shifted above and some liquid dribbled onto the center of the floor. Makepeace cursed at the leaky ceiling half-heartedly. At least it was better than being stuck in the rain. Sighing, he found a spot that didn't have a leak overhead and hunkered down, trying to avoid as much of the water fallout as possible.


	5. Chapter 5

"Jesus H. Christ! What the hell was that thing?" Warren exclaimed, still strung out from his sudden adrenaline rush. The sound of Henderson's retching grated in his ears. The major shuddered.

Andrews fingered his rifle. "You're askin' me?" He glanced at Henderson. "You okay, Tommy?"

Henderson wiped his mouth and nodded, swallowing convulsively. "Yeah, I'm fine. I just—"

"Shit, it's okay. I feel a little like puking my guts out, too."

Henderson nodded again.

The three Marines stared down at the stinking, gelatinous remains of...something. Henderson touched his arm, where a slimy—Tentacle? Pseudopod?—had grabbed him and yanked him off the trail. Before Warren had given the order to fire, he'd just gotten the impression of something large and sickly green and bloated. And hungry. He hadn't needed a better ID to know the thing needed killing.

"Well, at least now we know what was tracking us." He gave Henderson a quick once-over. Although uninjured, the poor guy was covered in smelly goo. His hands clenched his rifle so tightly his arms shook, and his face was almost colorless. It wasn't every day a giant blob tried to have you for lunch. Warren still felt rattled himself. He hadn't expected the thing to burst like that.

"You don't look so good, Corporal. Maybe you should sit down for a minute," he said, with a pang of sympathy. Henderson really did look awful. "Take a load off."

"Yes, sir," Henderson said in a small voice. He set his pack on the ground, then paused. "I think I want to clean up first, sir."

Warren grimaced. Henderson had a point. He had taken the brunt of the blob's messy demise, and he stank unbearably—an alien reek that triggered the human gag reflex. Gobbets of slimy gunk had spattered on Warren and Andrews as well. "I think we all need to clean some of this crap off," he said, indicating the streaks of green slime on his own rain jacket.

"Let's head a ways up the trail first," Andrews said, wrinkling his nose against the stench. "That thing's disgusting—and it's everywhere. The stink's gonna attract scavengers soon, and maybe some more unfriendly wildlife."

"You think there might be more of those blobs around?" Warren asked, fingering his M249's trigger guard.

"Maybe."

"And maybe not. On Earth at least, big predators tend to be territorial," Henderson said, a little weakly. "Has to do with the prey populations required to sustain a large animal. Probably works the same way here." He sounded like he had failed to convince himself, though. He looked off into the brush and sighed. "Then again, who the hell can say what works in this place?"

"Was that supposed to be reassuring?" Andrews muttered.

Henderson didn't respond. He swallowed a few more times, then shook himself and his clothes to dislodge the larger globs of blob-goo. Wearily, he picked up his rucksack and shook it, too, before settling it on his shoulders.

A few drops of water fell through the thick leaves overhead, then the rain started up again in earnest. The men started walking, watching with nervous eyes for more hungry monsters. Warren asked unhappily, "Why the hell do so many things want to eat us here? I'd have thought that aliens like us wouldn't even resemble food."

"I think it's just some quirk of biochemistry. It's incompatible, so the animals here keep getting the wrong signals," Henderson answered.

Warren looked at him and remembered from the files he'd read that Henderson had a biology degree—he'd been pre-med as an undergrad, and had even started medical school, but for some unspecified reason had never finished the MD. He'd dropped out and joined the military. Instead of becoming an officer or a Navy medical corpsman, as might be expected given his education, he'd done a complete one-eighty to his previous track, enlisted in the Marines, and learned the fine art of killing people.

Henderson went on, "Nothing here smells good to us, but we must give off some scent or other chemical marker that the meat eaters normally associate with food."

Andrews swatted at a bug that had lighted on his neck. "I'd say it's pretty powerful. Judging by all the attention we attract, we must smell fucking delicious."

"I guess. And there's three of us all grouped together and sweating. Probably increases the potency of the scent."

"Terrific," Warren grumbled. "So we're on the BEM gourmet menu. Just wonderful."

They walked in silence for a while, then Andrews ventured, "Uh, you don't supposed that those natives who took Colonel Makepeace— That they—"

"Don't even say it!" Warren snapped. "Just...don't." Andrews looked subdued, but the damage had been done. Henderson's face grew even paler. Warren had a hard time controlling his imagination, which had gone into overdrive and kept presenting him with a variety of terrible images, each more gruesome than the last.

The rain came down harder, then the clouds opened up with a full-fledged downpour. The men hunkered down in their rain suits and trudged on. The path followed a gentle slope downward. The ground grew even soggier, with mud puddles everywhere. The footprints the Marines were following dissolved into shallow depressions in the mud, then flattened out and vanished entirely. Only the occasional broken twig, torn leaf, or overturned rock told them they were still on the right track.

Warren called a halt when they approached a scummy pond. "Think we've gone far enough from the blob?" He received half-hearted, clueless shrugs in answer. "Okay, we might as well stop here and try to clean up a little."

Andrews had the least monster-goo on him, so he stood guard first while the others tried to scrape the sickly green glop off their clothing. It had gelled to a rubbery consistency, and stuck like superglue.

Henderson dug into his ruck and pulled out a towel, tightly rolled to save space. He shook it out, then wet it in the pond water and started wiping himself down. He managed to get most of the vile stuff off, then handed Warren the damp towel. "No sense ruining two towels," he said.

Warren nodded and cleaned off his own rain suit as best he could. Then Andrews took a turn while Henderson and Warren kept watch. Andrews rolled up the towel again and sealed it in a plastic specimen bag. "For the science boys back home," he quipped. "You know they'd never forgive us if we just threw valuable slime like that away."

Warren grunted. Henderson looked around and said, "It's getting darker."

Warren checked the inner dial on his watch, the one calibrated to P1Y-233's day. "The sun's going down, right on schedule." The MALP the SGC had sent through earlier had recorded a full day-night cycle on the planet, and the special timepieces they wore had been adjusted accordingly.

Andrews fidgeted, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "We'd better get moving again, while we've still got some daylight."

Warren asked pointedly, "How's the trail?"

"Could be worse. I expect the rainstorm's washed most of the footprints away, but as long as the boss kept breaking twigs and kicking rocks out of place, we should be able to follow him."

That was a big if, but Warren didn't see that they had any alternative. He said, "All right, we'll cover as much distance as we can before it gets too dark," and the Marines set out again.

Unfortunately, night fell quickly on P1Y-233, and the men were soon reduced to stumbling in the dark. Worse, they couldn't see enough to find whatever trail markers Makepeace might have left for them. Many of the plants glowed with eerie phosphorescence, with delicate traceries of red and violet, blue and pink, green and silver, transforming the forest into a fairyland. The ghostly lights held an unearthly beauty, but they didn't provide enough illumination for three humans to see or track by, and they screwed up both night vision and depth perception. None of the Marines wanted to break out the flashlights, which would give their position away to anything that might be watching.

Finally, they gave up and found a relatively clear place off the trail to settle down into a makeshift camp. They didn't pitch a tent since they might need to leave in a hurry. They just unrolled their sleeping bags, resigned to lying in the rain, without even a fire for comfort. The heat and light would be even more revealing than their flashlights.

They huddled together in wet misery, eating cold MREs, listening to the unnerving, unidentifiable sounds in the alien night all around them, and talking in hushed tones.

"Just how much of a head start do you think they got on us?" Warren asked as he shoveled a spoonful of beef ravioli into his mouth.

"About an hour," Andrews answered. "But they've got a huge advantage. They know this forest and the things hiding in it, and we don't. They could be miles ahead of us, assuming they even stopped for the night." Andrews shrugged his shoulders; Warren barely discerned the movement against some glowing, orange-red dots arranged in an intricate, V-shaped design. The phosphorescent plants provided the only source of light in a world of darkness. He had no idea if P1Y-233 had any moons. If so, the overcast sky and heavy forest blocked out all the moonlight.

"God, I hope they stopped." Henderson took a swallow from his canteen. "I—" He almost dropped the canteen when something shrieked in the night.

The horrible, freakish screaming went on and on and on, as though it would never stop. At last it changed pitch, faded away to pathetic yips, then nothing. The forest went preternaturally silent for a few moments before the normal background noises started up again.

"Sounded like something just got eaten alive," Andrews said grimly.

"Literally," Henderson said. "Jesus."

Warren forced himself to finish his meal. He hated this planet. He didn't want to end up in some monster's belly. He prayed Colonel Makepeace wasn't already in some monster's belly. What he said was, "I'll take first watch. Try to get some rest. We'll get moving again as soon as there's enough light to see by."

He didn't think anyone would get much sleep, though.


	6. Chapter 6

Makepeace was utterly exhausted by the time morning rolled around. He hadn't slept, hadn't been willing to lay his naked body down on the muddy, worm-infested ground. Instead, he had paced—limped, really—most of the night, worrying about his team, and himself, and starting at odd noises from above. When his legs grew too tired, he would crouch down or cautiously sit for a short time. The knife wound on his thigh hurt, his body ached all over, and the various small cuts and bites stung without a letup. In addition to being tired, filthy, and miserable in general, he was hungry and thirsty.

He hadn't had anything to eat or drink since he'd been captured, and the lack was gnawing at him. Yet he wasn't willing to swallow any of the rain water if he could avoid it—who knew what germs or toxins might be in it? Nor would he eat the repulsive native animals that infested the pit—he admitted to himself that that had as much to do with the slimy, disgusting nature of the critters as with their possible toxicity. The mud and water brought out the biggest damn slugs he'd ever seen. There was one right in front of him now, over a foot long, with green and yellow stripes running along the length of its glistening, black body.

Yuck.

He heard the now familiar chatter of whistles and clicks. Scattered water droplets and misty, filtered daylight showered down on him as the pit's brush camouflage was removed. He squinted up, saw dark gray clouds through the leaves. At least it wasn't raining anymore. The heavy wood lattice was pulled away, leaving the pit open. Tentacled aliens crowded around the edge. They hadn't gotten any prettier overnight.

A rope dropped down and dangled in front of him.

He stared at it, debating, ignoring the demanding chitters from above. He knew he was supposed to climb up, or hold on and let them pull him up. What would they do if he refused to cooperate? It was a tempting idea. Obstinacy, thy name is Robert, he thought, darkly amused.

The aliens shook the rope and whistled sharply. The shrill noise hurt his ears. They wanted him out of the pit, and looked like they were getting impatient with him. Did the demand mean they realized he was an intelligent being, or did they simply expect the monkey to climb any rope presented to it?

Another rope slithered into the pit, and an alien started to crawl down it. Headfirst—so to speak. That was interesting. It also made Makepeace's mind up for him. His situation was horrible enough already; he wasn't about to be dragged around like a recalcitrant pet. Nor was he thrilled with the idea of more contact with those tentacles. He gripped the first rope tightly, and cursed. He'd forgotten about the prickles.

The aliens hauled him up out of the hole. He passed the climbing alien on the way. It clung to its rope like an oversized zucchini on a vine, and hissed at him. Didn't take much imagination to figure out what it was saying. As he rose above it, he finally saw what the bottom of one of these aliens looked like, finally saw where they kept their mouths, nestled among a jumble of holes, folds, pockets, and fleshy protuberances. The teeth were a dead giveaway as to which orifice was the mouth, and he didn't even want to speculate about the others. He averted his eyes until he again stood on the muddy ground at the lip of the pit, jumped as he felt a tentacle range over his back and buttocks. Charming. Getting felt up by slimy aliens. Again.

This was getting old. He'd give anything to be less fascinating. For the first time, it occurred to him that he might have spent the night in that hole as much for his own protection as to keep him caged.

At least the stench didn't seem as bad today. He must be getting used to it. With a resigned sigh, he looked around. The monster cage had been covered with some kind of cloth, thank God. The damned aliens were messing with his stuff again, poking and prodding at the gear. He saw one alien holding his binoculars to its eyestalks, passing the field glasses round and round its ring of eyes with a disturbing, inhuman rhythm of its tentacles.

He saw another native playing with his canteen, and licked his dry lips. He could hear the water sloshing around. The alien hadn't figured out how to get the container open, although it was trying its best.

He stretched out his hand. He gestured at the canteen, at himself and back to the canteen again. The alien regarded him with an enigmatic red gaze. Well, at least it didn't seem threatened. It didn't seem particularly curious, either. He wasn't sure whether that was good or not. Slowly, he reached out again and wrapped his hand around the canteen. The alien's eyestalks rippled, a few of its friends chattered, and he froze. Nothing happened; they all just stared at him. Holding his breath, he took the canteen from the alien's grasp, amazed when it did nothing to stop him.

Quite a change from yesterday's behavior. What had made the difference? he wondered. He doubted he would ever know.

Their continued regard made him nervous, hesitant. What were they thinking? Could a human ever even come close to understanding their thought processes? His fingers twitched, started unscrewing the cap almost automatically.

As soon as he got it off, tentacles snatched the canteen away. He could only watch as the alien swirled the canteen, upended it and started to dump the water out.

"No, don't do that! Jesus, please—" He had been an idiot to think these things might understand. He held out his hands, feeling foolish even as he did so. It was ridiculous to be pleading with a completely inhuman alien that couldn't comprehend a word he said and probably didn't even care to try, but he was desperate for a drink.

Three of the alien's eyestalks flicked toward him. It stopped pouring water onto the ground, and slowly it extended the canteen. Makepeace grabbed it and tipped it against his mouth. He gulped down the clean water, fearing the creatures would take it away from him again at any moment.

A justified fear, as it turned out. The aliens clustered closer, chattering and waving their tentacles excitedly as they watched him drink. Makepeace managed a few more swallows before one overexcited native with curlicue scars yanked the canteen right out of his hands. Water spilled on his face, dribbled onto the muddy earth.

He wiped his face with the back of his arm. The alien probed the interior of the canteen with a delicate feeler, then poked at his mouth. Makepeace cursed and jerked his head away. The alien whistled and grasped the container with its lower tentacles. Apparently they were good for more than just locomotion. Makepeace rubbed his mouth, watching the operation in silence, curious in spite of himself as to what the alien intended.

A fleshy, wrinkled prehensile tube poked through the fringe of lower tentacles. Greenish-brown in color, it had an opening in its tip, with mobile lip-like structures that flexed and puckered and glistened with mucous. The repulsive appendage stretched and contracted like a clam's neck, probed like an elephant's trunk. It touched the throat of the canteen, then wriggled its way inside.

Makepeace swallowed hard at the sight. So much for uncontaminated water. Well, at least he wasn't thirsty anymore.

He heard sucking noises. The alien was drinking? Interesting, a siphon. These creatures came with their own built-in straws. No wonder they had seemed so surprised to see him drink with his mouth. They must have expected him to use... His jaw dropped.

Another native pushed its way forward. This one he recognized from its elaborate scarring—the leader. It knocked the canteen away from the other, whistling and clicking with strident, almost abusive, intensity.

The other creature clicked right back. They argued—at least it sounded like an argument to Makepeace—and the first alien ultimately backed down. After a moment's thought he realized that the leader might believe the water poisonous to their kind; after all, Makepeace himself was walking death to them, so his supplies ought to be suspect. Like the aliens, he watched and waited for a physical reaction from the drinker. Maybe the Earth water contained minerals or some additives like chlorine or fluoride that could be hazardous to these beings. He hoped not.

Nothing happened. Makepeace relaxed, let out the breath he hadn't even known he was holding. Thank God nothing had happened. Who knew how these things would react toward him if his water had hurt or killed one of their own? He twitched his hands nervously; many poisons didn't work immediately, the reaction might be delayed. He couldn't decide if the alien who had tested his water was brave, foolhardy, or just plain stupid. It sure as hell hadn't done him any favors.

The leader started chattering again. Now what was its problem? It emitted a strident whistle, and several aliens latched onto him. He struggled and cursed, but had no more success fighting all those tentacles than he'd had yesterday.

A few natives broke away from the group and carried his things back into the covered area of the encampment. They returned bearing two more coils of rope, thinner than the stuff they had used to haul him out of the pit. Makepeace got a sick feeling in his gut. He stood, breathing hard, held in place.

The leader moved directly in front of him. Makepeace had the distinct impression it was considering its options. Whatever they were. The native leader took hold of his wrists and brought them together. Makepeace resisted, tried to pull his arms apart, but he simply couldn't match the alien's strength.

The leader started experimenting. It lifted Makepeace's trapped arms up over his head, brought them down to throat level, bent them in and out from his chest. It made a noise like a belch, and released his wrists. At a short series of clicks the other aliens swung him around, so his back was to the leader. Again it pulled his wrists together, this time at the small of his back. Again it experimented with positions, but naturally it couldn't raise its captive's arms very far up. It tried anyway, too hard, and Makepeace squirmed and shouted with pain, "God damn it, that's far enough! Stop it!" The pressure eased off; the leader hiccuped.

By now Makepeace was well and truly panicked. His worst fears were confirmed when he felt a cord being wrapped tightly around his wrists, binding them together. At least this rope wasn't full of prickles. Instead, it felt sticky. He flexed his arms, testing his bonds. They tightened uncomfortably, and he hung his head in despair when he realized he couldn't break or loosen them.

The aliens spun him around to face their leader. A noose made from more of the sticky rope was dropped over his head and cinched around his neck. He was ashamed to feel himself trembling. He licked his lips and asked, very quietly, "What are you going to do?" then closed his eyes at the futility of the question.

His eyelids flew open when branched tentacles stroked along his arm and twined with his fingers. A different alien stood before him, making strange popping noises. He flinched away, and it backed off. He saw from its curlicue markings that it was the same one who had drunk from his canteen. What the hell was it thinking? He watched it suspiciously, but it just burbled at him. It hadn't indulged in the usual groping behavior from these things, so what had it meant? He wondered briefly if it had been trying to reassure him. He shook his head at his wishful thinking. He was starting to anthropomorphize these beings too much. Even if that had been its intent, it probably thought it was gentling a frightened animal, much as he imagined Doctor Fraiser might calm a lab rat before she broke its neck and dissected it.

A light drizzle began to fall, a dreary, wet addition to a miserable and terrifying morning. One alien held the free end of his noose, while the others went and collected weapons and nets. They gathered around again, then he felt a hard tug on his leash. The noose tightened like a choke-collar. He stumbled against the pull, the constriction around his neck, and the gravity that he still found awkward. He managed to catch his balance before he fell on his face, and had to pause as the wound on his thigh made its presence known. Another tug, gentler this time. Tentacles at his back urged him forward. He started limping along, following where he was led. The rest of the natives fell in around him.

The group headed back into the forest, on a partially cleared path. The bugs had a field day with his naked skin, and he couldn't even slap them away. Rocks and sticks lurked in the mud. His unprotected soles, while callused and toughened from over two decades of running and marching, simply weren't up to the challenge of handling the obstacles barefoot, and soon he could barely stagger fast enough to keep up.

The trip was relatively short; Makepeace estimated that it took perhaps half an hour. The dripping, intestinal trees ran up to the convoluted, weed-clotted edge of a huge lake, and here the group stopped. The water was still, and thick rafts of pink, brown, and green scum floated on it near the shore. The clearer areas had an unhealthy-looking oily sheen. A few tree branches curved out well past the shoreline, reaching for the rare, unobstructed daylight. Some bore long, stringy draperies of moss that brushed the dirty water. The place stank, like something had died a week ago. Insects thrived, and buzzed in even thicker clouds than in the woods. Makepeace shifted on his sore feet and squinted into the distance, only barely able to make out the opposite shore.

The drizzle grew heavier, became full-fledged rain. Makepeace watched the drops plink in the water, watched the circular, overlapping ripples spread out and dissolve. He wondered why he had been brought here.

The aliens jabbered among themselves. He thought they sounded excited, or maybe upset. It was hard to tell. They seemed to come to a decision and fell silent. One of his keepers nudged him toward the oily water. Makepeace balked at that. The creature shoved him, but he dug his heels into the mud and refused to move. No way was he wading into that filthy, disgusting water butt naked, with a nasty wound on one thigh and a large collection of bug bites, scratches, cuts, and bruises all over his body.

Two of the aliens solved the problem by the simple expedient of picking him up and heaving him into the drink.

Startled, he let out a yelp as water closed over his head, and got a mouthful of foul-tasting liquid for his trouble. His bare ass hit the muddy bottom. He floundered a little, then managed to get his feet under him and stood up, coughing and sputtering and cursing a blue streak.

The water where he landed was waist high and seemed a little cleaner than that at the shoreline, but only because there wasn't so much scum on the surface. It wasn't as cold as he'd feared, here in the shallows—the temperature felt like it was in the high sixties—but it was plenty cold enough to raise goose bumps and shivers, and he knew it would leach away his body heat, slowly and inexorably. His feet sank into slippery, viscous goo that squished between his toes. The stink of decay curled in his nostrils.

He felt a light tug on his neck, and glanced up. A few feet over his head, a thick, moss-covered tree branch extended out over the water. One of the creatures took the end of his leash and climbed out onto the limb. It wrapped the rope around the branch.

A renewed burst of panic surged through him. Did they intend to hang him?

No, that didn't seem to be the goal. The creature took up most of the slack, secured the rope to the tree, then used its tentacles to swing easily to the ground. All the aliens retreated back into the brush and vanished.

Makepeace swallowed convulsively and glanced around, watching for any sign of movement, either on the shore, in the forest, or in the water. The aliens had staked him out, the way lion hunters would a goat. But what were they hunting?

An image of that black-tentacled nightmare back at the camp came to him, and it was all he could do to keep from screaming.


	7. Chapter 7

SG-3 was moving before the sun rose. They walked in the gray light of predawn, stepping softly, quietly. It wasn't raining now, but it had for most of the night, and the forest dripped with excess moisture. Water glistened on the leaves, spraying in all directions anytime the foliage was disturbed. The mud was several inches deep, and puddles obstructed the path where the ground couldn't absorb any more precipitation. The men stoically marched through it all.

Needless to say, the last traces of footprints had been washed away. However, the hunting trail appeared well-used, and the Marines still found the occasional trail marker left by their missing CO that reassured them they were on the right path. In some places rocks had been kicked so their dirty sides faced up, a sign of recent displacement. Even P1Y-233's near-eternal rain needed more than a day to wash off that much encrusted mud. In other places they found a single, cleanly broken twig, or a leaf with a tiny, uniform tear.

After a while the weather got damp again. A persistent, annoying drizzle fell from the sky. About half an hour later, SG-3 came upon an encampment, and ducked down behind some prickly bushes with jagged, red-brown leaves before they could be spotted.

Warren motioned to Andrews and Henderson to check the place out. They nodded and moved into the surrounding brush. Warren skirted the edges, watching carefully for any signs of life. All he saw were the alien equivalent of camouflage netting, conical tents hanging from trees and insulated with moss, smoothed-off tree stumps, a lot of mud, and a large, cloth-covered box sitting near a big hole in the ground. No aliens. He spoke quietly into his radio, "Nothing here."

The other two replied with the same intel. "Looks clear," Andrews said. "I'm heading in." The drizzle turned to rain as he carefully moved out into the clearing. Nothing attacked him; the area appeared deserted. He walked over to a tent and peered inside. Moved on to another. "Shit."

"What is it?" Warren asked.

"Found the boss's stuff in here. Damn, we missed 'em."

The clearing stayed peaceful. No aliens jumped out of hiding to defend their ill-gotten gains. Warren and Henderson left the cover of the forest and joined their teammate at the tent.

Inside they found all of Makepeace's supplies—the rucksack and its contents spread out; his knife and sidearm; sleeping bag and tent, both unrolled and dumped in an untidy pile; two canteens, one empty; his clothes—and his rain suit and boots.

Henderson lifted the Gore-Tex trousers with a worried frown. "Why wouldn't Colonel Makepeace be wearing... Oh, my God." He cast an imploring look at Warren. "Sir..."

Andrews stroked his rifle, a terrible expression on his face. "Goddamn this fucking place."

Warren felt his stomach lurch, but refused to accept the horrible images that came to mind, the same images that he'd refused to entertain yesterday, that he hadn't even permitted the men to discuss. "Let's not jump to conclusions. There might be a different explanation."

"There better be, or I'm gonna depopulate this entire fucking planet!" Andrews snarled. "I'm gonna hunt those fucking savages down and put so many fucking bullets in 'em—"

"That's enough!" Warren held up his hand, and ordered, "Divide his stuff three ways. We'll take everything but the ruck and the sleeping gear." Those items weren't particularly valuable and were simply too bulky and heavy to hump on this search mission.

In silence, they packed Makepeace's supplies into their own rucksacks then systematically checked out the rest of the aliens' tents. Although they found a number of bizarre and unrecognizable tools, there was nothing to indicate Makepeace's fate, which Warren thought something of a relief. He'd been half terrified that they would find human remains, a blood-stained chopping block, scraped or chewed bones... He took a firm grip on his thoughts and moved on to the covered box. He pulled off the drop cloth and made a disgusted noise as his imagination again ran wild. "What the fucking hell is this thing?"

The box was actually a wooden cage. Inside it lay a revolting mound of rubbery black. Warren saw tentacles. Lots and lots of tentacles, and rows of suckers lined with sharp hooks. He picked up a stick and poked at it, watching the wrinkled flesh quiver like old gelatin. Otherwise the thing didn't move. It was still, lifeless. Dead.

"I hate this planet," Henderson said quietly.

Andrews's face was impassive as he turned away from the dead monster and went to inspect the pit. He glanced briefly at the wood latticework and pile of branches lying beside it, then peered over the edge. "Nothing down there— Wait a sec—" He dropped to his hands and knees, unmindful of the thick, clotted filth, and practically stuck his nose into the mud.

"What you got?" Warren asked.

"Some impressions. They're not clear, but they kind of resemble bare feet." Andrews looked up. "Human feet."

"From last night?"

Andrews shook his head. "Not in all this rain and muck. These have got to be fresh. It's hard to tell, but I'd say they can't be more than an hour old. Probably less."

Warren felt a surge of hope. So close... If only they'd gotten an earlier start!

Henderson looked into the pit. "You think he spent the night down there?"

"Can't tell," Andrews replied. "Hope not, but probably."

"It doesn't matter," Warren said impatiently. "We need to find where he is now. Spread out and check the entire area for tracks. I want to know where those aliens took him."

"There's also more of those weird snake tracks here," Andrews warned.

Warren didn't care. With renewed vigor and painstaking care, the men combed the muddy encampment. Warren watched Andrews scour the earth among the tents. Watched Henderson wind his way to the far side of the clearing, where it again met with dense vegetation. Saw nothing but sloppy muck beneath his own feet.

Let there be a trail, Warren thought, pleading with any deity who might deign to listen. Somewhere. Just a few footprints to point us in the right direction. That's all I ask.

P1Y-233's gods must have been in a good mood, because at that moment Henderson cried out, "Here!"


	8. Chapter 8

"Damn it!" Makepeace jumped as something nipped at his calf. His foot slipped, and he staggered sideways. The rope tethering him to the tree branch overhead snapped taut and yanked his neck, the noose tightening in response to the violent motion. Coughing and gagging, he regained his balance and stood upright again. The pressure on his throat eased off.

He wished the waterlife would leave him alone. The fishies didn't seem as interested in tasting him as the land creatures did, but that only made the bites all the more surprising, and he couldn't even see them coming. His neck burned and throbbed from all the times he'd jumped too far or fallen. Now he knew how a dog felt when it ran and jerked on its leash.

He started shivering again. He was chilled to the bone from standing too long in waist-deep water in the pouring rain, with bugs eating him alive above the oily surface and minnows nibbling at his privates below it. He hurt all over, and he was helpless to change anything about his condition.

How long had he been like this? Fifteen minutes, an hour? Half a day? Forever?

His time sense had deserted him. All he knew was that he was utterly miserable.

No black monsters had put in an appearance so far. Intellectually, he knew that was a good thing, but he was so beaten down that he almost wished they'd just show up and eat him already. Get it over with. At least then he wouldn't hurt or be cold anymore.

He worked his achy arms, an unthinking action that he stopped as soon as he realized what he was doing. Too late. The bindings bit into his wrists, just like always, until he thought they might draw blood. Hell, maybe they already had.

He relaxed his muscles, feeling the cords ease when he stopped struggling against them. They seemed to have some kind of "memory," since they always loosened back to their original state when he quit fighting them. Never looser, though.

He bent his knees a little to submerge his arms further into the cool water, to soothe his abused wrists. From his earlier experience back at the aliens' camp, he knew the sticky cords tightened with movement. He'd hoped, though, that the effect might be different in the water, that he might be able to roll or slide his bindings off wet-slicked skin. No such luck. The first time he had tried he'd been a little too enthusiastic, and the cords had tightened so painfully he thought they might actually cut off his hands.

A fish bite and the resulting jump and misstep had taught him that the noose, made of the same material as his wrist bindings, worked exactly the same way. After too many unfortunate experiences, most fueled by stubbornness and fear, he'd tried to keep as still as possible.

It was so hard, though, to just stand passively, waiting to be devoured by monsters.

His thighs and calves started burning, and he straightened again. He rather hoped that that wasn't really what the aliens had in mind, that they just wanted to use his irresistible scent to draw their enemies out of hiding. Realistically, though, he knew he probably served two purposes, both as fishing lure and as rat poison.

He glared out toward the trees bordering the water. There was no sign of his inhuman captors, but he knew they were out there. Watching. Waiting.

With a sudden burst of rage, he shouted, "Goddamn you! Nothing's coming! Give it up, already!"

No response answered his call. Well, what the hell had he expected? He spat into the water in disgust, and turned around to face the broad expanse of the lake.

He thought about his team. Where were they? Were they all right? Were they even still alive?

Last night's weapons' fire had been his only indication that they were still alive and free. Since then, he'd heard nothing. He hoped they were only keeping stealthy and safe, but this planet was so treacherous. Anything could have happened to them. Had something eaten them? Had another tribe of aliens attacked them? Something bad had to have provoked that gunfire.

God, what if they had lost the fight? What if they were dead? They couldn't all be dead. No, he wouldn't, couldn't believe that. Someone had to escape this Hell. He was lost, but he had to believe they still had a chance.

He shivered, not from the cold, and stared out across the water, seeing nothing. There it was, the forbidden thought: He was lost. The way the admission had snuck in under his mental radar shook him; he had always believed he knew himself better than that. Surprise, surprise.

Maybe he ought to just hang himself and be done with it. He was rigged up for it, after all. Just go limp, let the noose support his weight, let it tighten and tighten until it asphyxiated him into unconsciousness. The dead weight of his body would finish the job. Die now, by his own hand like a man, rather than as living shark chum.

Survival instinct kicked in at the mere idea, superseding despair, short-circuiting foolish action. Not yet, not yet.

Maybe he'd do it when the monsters came.

The clouds grew darker, and with startling suddenness the rain drove down in a pounding, stinging downpour. The roar of its falling, the sheets of water hitting the lake and trees, was near deafening. Miniature rivers streamed along his bare skin, running from his drenched hair down his neck, tracing down his arms and torso.

The cloudburst was brief, and the storm tapered down to light rain. Makepeace inhaled deeply and tried to control his chattering teeth. Why had he ever thought this planet was warm? He was freezing. A stubborn raindrop dangled from the tip of his nose. He gave his head a shake and the drop flew off, only to be replaced by another as a rivulet of water trickled down from his hairline.

In the distance, he could see ripples on the lake. At first he thought they were just disturbances from the rain shower, that maybe the downpour had stirred the placid surface. Then he saw that they were V-shaped, arrowing in his direction, moving slowly but with purpose.

They came closer, closer. He watched them with a strange detachment that was almost numb. Saw a dark curve break the surface, saw a black tentacle slap at some floating debris then disappear again. Saw spots of bright emerald rise on flabby ebony mounds to peer over the water with malignant intensity. More V-shaped ripples appeared, and more, all pointed toward him.

He swallowed a hard knot in his throat, swallowed and swallowed again. He couldn't tear his eyes away.

The monsters had come.


	9. Chapter 9

Warren and Henderson followed Andrews as he led them through the rain on a half-broken trail. The gunny had been like a bloodhound, hunched over, eyes on the ground, leading the way through the never-ending forest. He claimed that the trail was hot, that they were close, that they were catching up with their quarry.

They left the path and stopped partway to cache their rucksacks, keeping only their extra ammo, weapons, tactical gear, water, some survival supplies, and their GDOs stashed on their belts and in a multitude of pockets. The last thing they needed in a fight was to be weighed down with eighty pounds or more of supplies and equipment. None of them believed they'd get Makepeace back without a fight.

Now unencumbered by excess weight, Andrews moved with quick, silent steps, focused on the signs in the dirt and on the plants. Suddenly, he stopped. "We need to be careful," he murmured, almost too quietly to hear over the dripping water, rustling leaves, and unearthly insect and animal noises. "We're almost on top of them, and I think they're hiding like before, out there." He made a small gesture at the not-so-innocent looking woodlands. "They can't fool us this time, though. I've got their number."

Warren nodded, and water cascaded off his hood. They'd all been keeping their weapons ready to fire, but the warning was apt. He remembered the way they had been ambushed, how they'd never even had a hint that something might be lurking in the strange, overwhelming trees, waiting for them. How they'd never even seen their enemy.

They traveled further, edging forward with excruciating care, staying low in the underbrush to avoid detection. A surprise downpour hammered at them painfully for a few minutes before it slowed to a gentler rainfall. Andrews stopped again, cautiously peered through some ugly bushes with spiny white berries. "What the hell—" He sounded outraged.

Stepping softly, Warren moved to the front to take a look. The forest eased into the weedy shoreline of an enormous lake. Then he saw what had the gunnery sergeant so pissed off.

His back to the woods, Colonel Makepeace stood in the lake, in waist-deep water. Warren could see only his bare torso, but he knew Makepeace was naked. His clothes were in Henderson's rucksack.

The colonel's hands were tied behind his back. A rope tied around his neck tethered him to an overhanging tree branch. His attention was fixed out on the water—or on something in the water. He stiffened, took a step back, then another, and then he lost his footing and lurched to one side. The rope pulled tight against his neck; he flailed helplessly against it. Warren could hear him choking.

Someone growled. Henderson said, "Cover me," and darted out toward the water.

Swearing, Warren crashed after him.


	10. Chapter 10

Makepeace thrashed wildly as the cord cut into his throat. He couldn't breathe, couldn't get even a single molecule of air into his burning lungs. His head spun from lack of oxygen and restricted blood flow. His legs pumped, but his feet kept slipping out from under him; he couldn't stop falling. The noose tightened more and more with each tumble and jerk. His arms worked, instinctively trying to flail for balance, and the bindings on his wrists shrank and sliced at his raw skin. Water churned all around him, kicked up by his struggles, but he hardly noticed the splashes.

There was a roaring in his ears; black and red spots danced in his eyes. Convulsive spasms shook him as he dangled and swung. Dimly, he thought, I've done it now, but he knew it was better than being torn apart and eaten alive. He'd intended to do it anyway, he couldn't blame fate for forcing his hand. His malfunctioning brain tried to take charge, ordering his body to relax, telling it that this was for the best, but against his will his muscles stubbornly continued to fight for life.

His vision grayed. Through the deafening noise of his own pounding heart and rushing blood he thought he heard voices.

"Colonel! Colonel Makepeace!"

An aural hallucination. Who knew his dying thoughts would be of Thomas Henderson?

Then he felt strong hands under his armpits, hauling him onto his feet. Henderson's voice again: "Colonel, can you hear me? Colonel!"

A dream, it was just a dream.

An arm wrapped around his chest, pulled him back against a warm, solid body and held him upright. The noose slackened. He wheezed, drawing precious air into his heaving lungs, rejoicing in the fiery pain of breathing. His head flopped down and up again, in time to his gasping breaths and spasms of coughing.

His vision cleared as his breathing calmed. The uproar in his ears faded. He felt a hand fumbling at the back of his neck. Doing what? He rolled his head and looked over his shoulder. Looked at a familiar face. "Henderson," he said, with a strange mixture of detachment and shock. His voice was gravel; his throat felt lacerated, as though he had swallowed broken glass.

"Sir, can you stand?"

"You're real?" Stupid question. "What are you doing here?" Another stupid question.

"Trying to get you down. I need both hands."

His thoughts grew more lucid as freshly oxygenated blood coursed into his brain. Out of the corner of his eye he watched as Henderson gave up on the knot, pulled his knife with his free hand, and started sawing at the tether. Makepeace's legs felt like rubber, but he willed them to support his weight. They cooperated, reluctantly. He heard a murmured, "Thanks," and the arm around his chest slipped away.

"The others?"

"They're here." Henderson swore. "Damn this stuff!" He gripped the cord more firmly, sawed harder.

The tiny jerks on the noose made it uncomfortable, but Makepeace didn't care. He could still breathe—he was alive—his team was alive! Nearby splashes jolted him with reborn fear. "The lake monsters! Henderson, hurry!"

"The what?"

The water churned with sudden fury. Like the mythical Kraken, an ebony-skinned monster burst from the waves with a screaming roar and a mass of writhing tentacles.

"Jesus!" Henderson gasped. He slashed at the horror with his knife, attempting to keep it at bay. Makepeace stumbled and gagged as the noose prevented him from moving away.

Gunfire erupted from somewhere behind them. The monster howled as the bullets cut it to pieces. Dark blue ichor spurted, and the thing sank down beneath the lake's surface. Sergeant Andrews and Major Warren ran forward, splashing through the water.

Immediately, two more monsters exploded out of the lake. Inhuman shrieks rent the air; more weapons' fire thundered, shredding the nightmare creatures, sending them back to Hell.

"Jesus Christ!" Andrews scanned the calming water, finger twitching on the trigger of his rifle.

Henderson sawed frantically at the rope tethering Makepeace in place. In his haste he yanked too hard on the leash, and Makepeace felt the noose constrict around his abraded neck. He didn't tell Henderson, didn't want him to slow down. "Hurry, there's more coming," he managed to gasp out, "and natives hiding in the trees—"

Keeping his machine gun aimed out at the lake, Warren said, "We know about the natives, sir. We just didn't know these things were out here—"

"Yeah, and where are those natives? Why aren't they trying to stop us?" Henderson asked, still working.

"Maybe the monsters and the gunfire scared them off?"

Andrews said, "No, they're still out there. I don't know what they're waiting for..." His voice trailed away.

Countless black tentacles rose from the lake's hidden depths. Emerald eyes gleamed amid bulbous, floating sacs. The phalanx of monsters slowly swam forward.

"Dear God," Warren said.

Andrews sighted along his rifle and hissed, "Hey, Tommy, maybe you'd better hurry it up, huh?"

"Goddamned stuff's hard to cut," Henderson snarled back at him. "I'm only partway through."

"Untie the knot, then."

"Don't you think I already tried that?"

"Quit bickering and shoot!" Makepeace choked out.

Warren and Andrews opened up on the lines of monsters approaching them. There came a few screams, then almost as one the creatures submerged. Small waves rippled across the water.

"Oh, crap," said Andrews.

Makepeace felt his heart sink down to his toes. Henderson was still working on that damned leash, muttering curses under his breath. It was too late. Everything was too late. They were all going to die... Makepeace swallowed. "Get out of here."

"What?" Warren swung around to stare at him.

"You heard me." Makepeace swallowed again, closed his eyes. He didn't want to die, not now, not when they were so close... "And shoot me before you go."

Warren gave him a shocked glance. Andrews muttered darkly, "Dumb-ass officers." They both kept their weapons aimed out at the lake.

Jerking angrily on the cord, Henderson said, "We're not going to—"

Suddenly the water boiled and in a rush of spray vomited up shrieking, night-black demons. Tentacles rose and coiled in the air, in the water, seething like nests of poisonous vipers. Mouths gaped through the squirming appendages, great cavities lined with vicious teeth. Row after row of pitiless green eyes focused on intended prey.

Before the men could fire their guns, a volley of lances and rocks arced over their heads and tore into the masses of lake monsters. In surprise, the Marines hunkered around Makepeace and Henderson—Andrews facing the lake, Warren the forest—trying to protect themselves from this new threat as well as the old. High-pitched whistles sounded from the woods.

With more shrill cries, the natives appeared from the trees and splashed into the water, running full-out, carrying nets, spears, hooks, and long, two-pronged forks. The speed they made on their lower tentacles was frightening, inhuman, and they were upon the monsters in an instant. The air filled with roars and shrieks and angry whistles. The lake churned with thrashing tentacles, the water fouled with blood and fluid and the stinking guts of the combatants. The human bait had seemingly been forgotten; the battle swirled heedlessly—dangerously—around the four Marines.

Andrews yelled incoherently as a night-black lake monster flung a native aside and rushed him. Both he and Warren let loose a barrage of lead that cut the writhing monstrosity in half.

Warren shouted over the gunfire, the alien screams, the battle noise, at Henderson: "Are you done yet?!"

Henderson pulled hard on the cord, drove the knife through it one last time. The tether snapped, and Makepeace staggered forward, gasping, suddenly free. Henderson grabbed one of his bound arms and screamed, "I've got him! Let's go! Let's go!"

Andrews gripped Makepeace's other arm; together, he and Henderson hauled their CO through the seething, bloodied water, dodging around monsters and natives alike, while Warren followed close behind, covering their retreat. Makepeace bit back a cry as the wrist bindings clamped down harder and harder with every tug on his arms, and did his best to keep up on his own. His legs didn't want to work right; he staggered and stumbled, had to be held upright and dragged, and the cords kept getting tighter. He felt warm liquid trickle onto his palms.

"We're almost out!" Warren yelled. "Go! Go! Keep going!" Then he turned to one side, firing, as another lake monster came in from the flank.

It was the longest twenty feet of Makepeace's life. As they sloshed onto the shore, bands of iron wrapped around his legs and waist, and he was painfully yanked against his men's grasp. They hung on with grim determination, yelling, as more tentacles wrapped around them as well and pulled them back into the water along with him. Makepeace turned his head, saw three natives right on him, one with familiar curlicue scarring, all holding him, trying to reel him in. Warren shouted something and opened fire with his machine gun. The bullets whizzed by, so close Makepeace could almost feel their passage, so close the thunder deafened him, so close the gore splattered onto his skin. All three aliens fell back into the water, their ridged green bodies chopped to pieces.

Makepeace stared at the carnage until his men grabbed him again and hustled him into the woods.


	11. Chapter 11

They ran through the forest on the hunting trail without any consideration for stealth, putting as much ground between themselves and the lake as they could. Warren brought up the rear, watching for signs of pursuit. There didn't seem to be any, but he wasn't inclined to stop and do a thorough recon just yet, either.

Lord, what a planet. Those red-eyed, tentacled *_things_* were the natives that had ambushed them and kidnapped Makepeace? He couldn't wrap his mind around the sheer other-ness of them. He hadn't really known what to expect, but those monstrosities definitely hadn't been it, although the snakelike tracks he had seen earlier should have been warning enough that the aliens weren't even vaguely humanoid.

The noise from the battle faded with distance, until only an occasional, faint roar could be heard. Henderson turned his head and asked, "How's it look back there, Major? I think we need to slow down."

Henderson and Andrews each had an arm wrapped around Makepeace's back, helping to support him. Warren scowled, worried. There was something wrong with the colonel. He was limping, staggering really, unable to coordinate his legs enough to keep up on his own.

The limping Warren could understand. Makepeace's bare feet were covered with cuts, and he had an ugly gash on his right thigh. But there was some other problem, too; a lethargy that made him drag as though he didn't have any strength, that required the others to take as much of his weight as possible and haul him along.

Warren wondered if it was just a combination of pain, exhaustion, and shock. The man had almost strangled to death, then had almost been eaten by those *_things_* in the lake. Concerned, Warren noticed the colonel stumble again. Makepeace's balance might be off. His hands were still bound, since they hadn't taken the time to stop and try to cut the tough cord off. That wouldn't normally be a problem—Makepeace knew the score—but Warren could see that his wrists were bloodied and torn up pretty badly. He must have really fought against his restraints. The noose and the multiple rope burns around his neck couldn't be helping matters, either.

Warren looked around, still detecting no signs of pursuit. "Okay, they don't seem to be following us. We need to get off this trail and start covering our tracks anyway."

They slowed from a run to a jog, then to a walk. After a while they came to a depression filled with ankle-deep water, where they could leave the trail with relative anonymity. Henderson, Makepeace, and Andrews went through the muddy pool and further into the woods. Warren continued on the hunting path a little longer and laid a false trail. When he was satisfied, he carefully backtracked then crossed the puddle. He used a branch to rake over the mud in an attempt to disguise their prints, and followed his teammates.

He had no idea if his efforts would even make a difference. As Andrews had speculated yesterday, the aliens might not track the way humans did. After getting a look at the ugly bastards for himself, he was inclined to agree. If those things hunted by scent, he and the others were in real trouble, what with how enticing and unique they apparently smelled. He found himself hoping for a hard, driving, flood-inducing downpour to wash away all traces of their passing.

Huh. First time he'd wished for more rain on this sodden, miserable mudball.

He caught up with his teammates by a fallen tree, and they all moved on again.

A little later they reached the location where they'd cached their supplies. When they stopped, Makepeace dropped to his knees in the mud, his head hanging. He was shivering again. Henderson crouched down beside him, feeling his neck for the pulse with one hand and shooing bugs away with the other. "Sir? What's wrong?"

"I'm cold," Makepeace said softly. He sounded distant, apathetic. "Just cold. And tired." He took a deep breath, then another, staring into space with dull eyes. "Really tired."

"You're feeling uncoordinated," Henderson said. It was not a question. "Strengthless, and kind of numb."

Makepeace nodded. "Yeah."

"How long were you in that lake?"

"Don't know. Seemed like forever."

Henderson looked up at Warren and Andrews. "Mild to moderate hypothermia, sounds like. That lake water wasn't exactly warm. His pulse is okay, though."

Andrews frowned. "He couldn't have been in the lake for very long."

"Obviously it was long enough. We need to dry him off and warm him up."

Warren said, "We can't stay here."

"I know. We'll just have to do what we can."

Warren glanced into the trees, where five crimson and brown bird-things sat on a branch together, all lined up and watching with predatory patience. He glowered at them, considered chasing them off but abandoned the idea quickly. What was the point? They'd just come back, and the noise might attract something even more unpleasant.

They needed to get moving again, ASAP. The natives might be too preoccupied at the moment to give chase, but this planet was chock full of all kinds of hungry nasties. "Get our stuff," he said to Andrews. The sergeant nodded once and went to dig the rucksacks out from under the piles of leaves and branches that hid them.

Henderson pulled out his knife. "Sir, I'm going to cut your hands loose."

"Fine." Makepeace sighed. "But try to take it easy, okay? These cords tighten up when you pull on them too hard."

Henderson hesitated for an instant, staring at the marks on Makepeace's throat, at the noose that still hung from his neck. He looked stricken as he suddenly realized the implications.

Makepeace gave his head a minute shake. "Forget it," he said wearily, closing his eyes. "Just get this crap off me."

Henderson looked unhappy. "Think you could give me a hand, Major? Maybe if you hold the rope still while I cut it..."

Warren bent down beside him. He selected a likely looking section, gripped it firmly to keep it taut for Henderson to cut. Warren actually felt the damned stuff resist him. The entire tangle snugged into Makepeace's damaged wrists, drawing fresh blood. Makepeace tensed and caught his breath. Warren said, "Oh, crap. Sir—"

"Just do it," Makepeace said tightly.

Henderson started sawing on the length Warren held for him. It wasn't a pleasant or easy operation, but between the two of them they managed to accomplish it without inflicting too much pain and bleeding on Makepeace. A few grunts and flinches were the only indication that they had hurt him.

The noose was actually easier to deal with, since it was a single loop of the alien cord. Warren worked his fingers between it and Makepeace's neck, preventing it from tightening down too far.

Andrews brought over the last rucksack. Henderson dug out a first aid kit and got to work cleaning up the worst of Makepeace's injuries. Warren picked up his SAW and got to his feet. More of the bird-things had gathered in the trees, watching with disturbing intensity. There were an awful lot of them. Perhaps they had all been attracted by the scent of the fresh blood. He wondered why they weren't simply attacking like everything else on this damned planet. Did numbers make a difference with this species? Were they gathering for a massed attack, or were they waiting for something else?

"We need to get moving," he said, fingering his weapon edgily. "Henderson, get the colonel ready to go as fast as you can." Makepeace, he noticed, was still zoned out, passively letting Henderson apply antiseptic and bandages, neither hindering nor helping. The lethargy and apathy, Warren knew, were typical of hypothermia victims. Just like he understood that Makepeace needed to dry off and warm up in order to recover. Unfortunately, that required time, and they didn't have that luxury.

"Problems?" Andrews said, coming to join him. "You think we were followed after all?"

"Not the natives." Warren nodded at the trees. "Those birds are making me nervous."

"Oh. Them." There was loathing in Andrews's voice. "Gotcha. Why don't I scout around a bit, just to make sure the natives haven't abandoned their little lake party in our favor."

"Stay close. We're leaving as soon as Colonel Makepeace can travel—"

"No prob, Major." With a cheery wave, Andrews disappeared into the brush.

How did he do that? Must be a sniper thing. Warren had seen other snipers perform the same vanishing act, and it always amazed him. Dismissing it from his mind, he gave the bird-things a paranoid look and hoped like crazy that they weren't holding off because something bigger and meaner was in the bushes, ready to pounce. He paced back and forth, eyes roving over the thick, ugly vegetation. Anything could be hiding out there.

"That's not my canteen, is it?" Colonel Makepeace sounded revolted.

Warren turned. Henderson had managed to get the colonel dressed and on his feet, and was attempting to convince him to take a drink of water.

"You need to rehydrate, sir," Henderson said, patiently. "What's the problem?"

"One of those *_things_* stuck some kind of drinking appendage in one of my canteens." Makepeace shuddered visibly. "It was disgusting. There's probably slime or alien germs or something in there."

"Oh." Henderson looked startled, then thoughtful. "Okay, your canteens are off-limits. The lab'll probably want to analyze them when we get back." He got another canteen. "Here. This one's mine. It's only got my spit in it."

Makepeace threw him a suspicious look, but drank the water.

Warren walked over to them, hoping the orneriness was a good sign. It seemed more like normal Makepeace behavior than apathy, at any rate. "Feeling better, sir?" he asked.

Another suspicious look. "I'm fine."

Warren grunted noncommittally. Bad temper aside, Makepeace did not look "fine." He was shaky, uncoordinated, and he seemed to be having a lot of trouble focusing. More symptoms of hypothermia. Probably that would go on for a few hours. Maybe the coming nature hike would help. Get his blood moving, at any rate.

Henderson was still fussing. He found some chemical heat packets and activated them. "These'll help with your core body temperature," he said as he shoved them into the pockets of Makepeace's rain jacket. "It's the best we can do right now." He handed the colonel a couple of energy bars. "Eating'll help, too."

Makepeace nodded and bit into the food with less antagonism than he'd shown with the canteen. Although, really, the whole water thing was understandable, what with the possible contamination and all. Warren wouldn't be thrilled to drink from Makepeace's canteen, either.

Andrews reemerged from the woods and joined his teammates. "Looks pretty clear," he reported. "No sign of pursuit, and no signs of anything hungry around, either." He nodded to the butt-ugly flying creatures still perched overhead. "Except them and the bugs."

"Let's not push our luck," said Warren. He shouldered his rucksack. "As the saying goes, upwards and onwards."

The telltale patter of raindrops on leaves started again. Warren sighed as he felt a large drop land on his head, and pulled up his hood. Looked like he'd gotten his wish for rain. At least it should help hide their trail. With Henderson helping Makepeace stay on his feet, the four Marines started walking.


	12. Chapter 12

Time passed in a blur for Makepeace. After the adrenaline rush faded, his body crashed and took most of his normal consciousness with it. He was aware of walking, endless walking, and sporadic rain showers. A sense of urgency gnawed at the back of his mind, but what was foremost was simple exhaustion that bred an unnatural apathy to everything around him. What he really wanted to do was lie down and sleep for a week, but he knew they had to keep moving, and no one was giving him any say in the matter, anyway. He stopped when his team stopped, ate and drank when they made him, walked where they steered him, and got through it all by just letting his mind wander.

Every so often he forced himself to rouse enough to check what was going on. Major Warren was doing a competent job of holding things together, which was good since it allowed him drift off again without guilt. His own lack of concern bothered him, but in a distant way that couldn't pierce the numb fuzz in his head, so he kept trudging on, absently wishing each step was the last.

Over time, bit by bit, a more regular awareness returned. He started noticing his surroundings: the branches that brushed and caught at his clothes, the revolting, gut-like tree bark, the smell of rotting leaves and wood and other organic matter, the soft moss and slippery mud underfoot, and the all-pervading dampness in the air. Andrews ahead of him, Henderson nearby and keeping a hand on his arm. Warren's light footsteps to the rear. Constant dripping, odd rustlings, noises from insects and small, arboreal animals.

Bug bites. He cursed and slapped at his neck.

"Doing okay, sir?" Henderson asked, low-voiced.

"Fine," he returned without enthusiasm. It occurred to him that he'd heard that question before, and that he'd always responded in the same, monosyllabic way. He added, "I just wish these damned bugs would leave me alone."

Henderson laughed softly. "We all do, sir."

"You all wish they'd leave me alone?"

Silence. Then, "Welcome back to the land of the living, sir."

Makepeace smiled.

They walked on. It was slow going, since they were cutting their own trail through the dense, unbroken brush. Makepeace's head might have cleared, but his body was clumsy and lethargic, exhausted from its recent ordeal. He stumbled over roots and rocks, slipped on patches of algae and other slimy growths, and was forced to accept assistance more often than he would have liked.

Soon enough, though, the dim light grew darker, and the Marines stopped for the night. Although Makepeace would have killed for the chance to grab some shuteye, stopping didn't seem like a very a good idea under the circumstances. He forced himself to say, "We should just push on. Darkness'll give us better cover."

"Not this darkness, sir," Warren countered. "It's too dark, and the forest is too dense. We won't be able to get around without using flashlights. They'd be like a beacon, and even with them we'd be fumbling around and losing our footing."

Makepeace shrugged, not comfortable with the plan yet perversely wanting to be talked around. His traitorous body was screaming "Yes! Let's stop!" but his mind kept throwing images of his recent experiences at him. They were extremely motivating. "It might be worth it. The sooner we get off this planet, the better."

"Can't disagree with that, sir, " Andrews said, grimacing, "but you'll have to trust our judgment on this one. It's not just the darkness. A lot of the plants glow just enough to destroy your depth perception and night vision. We were out here last night, and believe me, there's just too much potential for disaster."

If the team's sniper didn't want to travel at night, then it was probably a really bad idea. Makepeace acquiesced with a short nod, and wrestled down his paranoia.

They found themselves a dense area of brambles and fern-like growths that provided some decent concealment. The drizzle grew heavier, threatening to turn back into full-fledged rain. "I'm getting real tired of this crap," Warren muttered.

Henderson got out a tarp and started to drape it inside a low hollow in the brambles.

"We can't make a full camp," Warren told him. Nonetheless, he pitched in and helped to secure the tarp.

"No, but we can't afford another wet night," Henderson said by way of explanation. "Especially the colonel."

"I'll live," Makepeace said, realizing that he was the real reason they were making any kind of camp at all. "Won't be the first time I've slept out in the rain, you know."

"I know you're feeling better, Colonel, but you're still recovering from hypothermia. It wasn't a bad case, but all this wet could make you relapse, and that would really slow us down tomorrow," Henderson said reasonably. "Whereas if you stay dry and warm and get a decent night's sleep, you'll probably be recovered by morning."

Again, Makepeace swallowed his objections, along with a certain amount of bitterness. Henderson's pronouncement had just excluded him from watch duty. He understood the reasoning, but he hated that he was slowing his team down so dangerously. The overt coddling grated as well. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt like such a waste of oxygen.

They sat huddled together under the tarp, eating cold MREs, shooing off bugs, and watching the rain fall. Now that he wasn't moving around, Makepeace felt a little cold again, the damp getting to him more than usual. The chemical heat packs had stopped functioning some time ago. Much as he didn't want to admit it, they had helped a great deal, but it wasn't safe to fire any more up again while the team was parked and stationary.

The dusk deepened into night, and the plants started glowing in a myriad of pastel colors and intricate patterns. Makepeace gazed at the eldritch display in wonder. "This is incredible."

"It is pretty," Warren agreed. "You haven't seen this before?"

"No." He shook his head. "I had no idea."

"I'm surprised," Henderson said. "Did the aliens use some kind of lights in their camp that blocked the plants out, sir?"

"I wouldn't know."

"But you spent the night with them?"

"I spent the night," Makepeace clarified, "in a big, muddy hole in the ground. They put bars over the top to keep me in, and then they camouflaged it with leaves and crap, so after the sun went down I couldn't see a damn thing."

Not that he could see much now, other than the light show. His men had been correct about the night conditions. It would have been impossible to navigate out there without technological assistance. He held up his hand and was barely able to make out the dark outline against the soft violet glow of some nearby leaves.

"Colonel," Warren ventured, "you are all right, aren't you? The aliens didn't really hurt you, did they?"

Makepeace chewed his cold meat loaf. Finally, he said, "Not too much, but they didn't particularly care about my well being, either."

"Sir?"

"You know those black lake monsters? They had one at the camp."

Warren paused at the apparent change of topic. "Yes, we saw it. It was dead."

"It was alive when I got there." Makepeace took a deep breath, and told them about his experiences with the aliens. About the creatures' excessive curiosity and inclinations to grope. About the dead bugs, the discovery of his toxicity, and the aliens' reaction. About the death of the big spider-thing the aliens had tested on him.

"Good God," Henderson said.

"You guys didn't know, did you?" Makepeace said. "We're not only irresistible, we're also deadly poison. They eat us, they die."

"We've been moving pretty much nonstop during the day, so we wouldn't have noticed the bugs dying," Andrews said thoughtfully, "and at night, well, who can tell? That spider wasn't poisonous, though?"

"Didn't seem to be. I never got sick or anything."

"Probably the venom, assuming it had any, wouldn't work so well on us," Henderson said. "It would be adapted to affect animals that evolved on this world. Doesn't sound like our biochemistry is similar enough to theirs."

"I dunno about that. We certainly affect them." Makepeace rubbed his right thigh. It still ached, but not so much now that the gash was a day old, and he hurt all over anyway. "You know how I got this wound on my thigh? They sliced off a piece of me and fed it to that thing in the cage. It gobbled it down like it hadn't eaten in a month, and died almost immediately. Took less than a minute, and it wasn't a pretty death. I'm pretty sure that's why I ended up staked out in the lake."

"So the lake monsters would be drawn to you, and..." Warren trailed off.

Makepeace nodded grimly. "And eat me. And die. Have I said 'thank you' to you guys yet?"

"No, but we've all been a little busy." There was humor and understanding in Warren's voice.

"That must be why they didn't try to stop us from freeing you," Andrews said in a speculative tone. "The aliens probably figured we were just more monster bait. They didn't attack until the monsters were drawn in close enough to the shoreline."

"I suspect they were hoping I'd thin out the monsters' ranks, but I doubt they believed I'd poison them all," Makepeace said. "They were armed and had nets and stuff, so they probably intended to either capture or kill the ones that didn't manage to take a bite out of me."

Warren said, "That's probably why they tried to grab you back from us, too. They needed their monster poison."

"But we spoiled the plan, and instead the aliens and their monsters had a small war on their hands, er, tentacles." Andrews snorted.

"Yeah. And you know what? I hope they all killed each other," Makepeace said savagely. "Every last one of them." He meant it. The aliens had planned an exceptionally ugly and painful death for him, and he couldn't muster up an iota of sympathy for any of them.

They ate in silence for a while. Then Henderson ventured, "Do you suppose they planned to take on all those lake monsters anyway, even before we showed up?"

Makepeace shrugged. "Who knows? They were armed for it, and they'd already captured one, but without me I don't think they had the means to go after that many all at once. I think they just made use of a serendipitous opportunity," he finished bitterly.

Something howled in the night. Something else shrieked once, twice, then was silent. Makepeace said, "God, I hate this planet."

Andrews asked, "Sir, what were the natives like? Could you figure them out at all? They looked so...strange."

"I figured out that they were hunting monsters," Makepeace snapped. Then he sighed. "Other than a few basics like eating and drinking and breathing, there weren't any similarities. No common body language at all. How could there be?" He sat quietly for a moment, remembering. He rubbed his bandaged wrists, touched his bandaged neck. "I take that back. They did figure out that they'd have to restrain my hands to keep me from messing with the noose. And then one of them stroked me when I freaked out on them about that. I can't be sure, but I think it might have been trying to calm me down."

"At least that sounds kind of hopeful. Do you think maybe there's a chance humans could eventually communicate with them?" Warren asked softly.

"I dunno. It might've just been a different kind of grope. They had problems keeping their tentacles to themselves." Makepeace rubbed his arms against the sudden chill of memory. He went on, "I guess you'd have to ask one of the experts back home about whether we have enough in common or not. I thought the petting seemed more like the kind of thing you'd do to calm down a dog or something. I don't know if any of them ever realized I wasn't just some weird animal. Besides, that alien was the only one that even bothered to try, and in the end it wanted to feed me to the monsters, too." It had been one of the group that had tried to drag him back into the lake, after SG-3 had rescued him. "Anyway, it doesn't matter now. I saw it die at the lake." He didn't elaborate.

"I think you're extraordinarily lucky to be alive, Colonel," Henderson said, after a pause. "When you consider how strange, maybe even frightening, we must appear to them, as well as how edible we apparently smell... Imagine if one of those aliens had been captured by a tribe of Stone Age humans. I doubt it would have lasted an hour. If the aliens hadn't noticed how toxic you were, and hadn't decided to use you for monster bait—"

"They might have eaten me themselves? Yeah, I thought of that," Makepeace said bleakly. "I prefer not to dwell on it."

"You would have had the last laugh at any rate," Andrews said. "So to speak."

"That would have been something of a Pyrrhic victory," Makepeace said. "I prefer the way things worked out."

They sat quietly for a moment, then Henderson, unable to leave it alone, speculated, "They're so completely alien. I wonder what the world looked like to them. What would it be like to have six eyes and see in all directions at once? Assuming those red things were really eyes, of course. They might be something else entirely. It's hard not to make assumptions about them based on human experience and expectations."

"They were eyes." Makepeace scraped the last of the food out of the MRE bag. "The aliens made a wrong assumption about me, at least, based on their own expectations."

"Just one?"

"Probably more, but this one was pretty graphic." Makepeace related the incident with the canteen, how the aliens drank through a siphon, and how they had apparently assumed he'd drink as well.

Andrews said, "Oh, my. You're going to be filing one hell of a mission report, Colonel." Everyone snickered a little, and tossed around a few dirty jokes to ease the discomfort level.

Makepeace yawned. He covered his mouth. "Sorry about that."

"Nah, it's past time to pack it in," Warren said. "You need to get some rest, sir. Don't worry, we'll hold the fort tonight."

Since his eyelids had developed a disconcerting tendency to drift closed without his permission, Makepeace didn't argue. As his men worked out their watch schedule, he shed his boots and rain gear, and crawled into a sleeping bag. He fell asleep almost instantly.


	13. Chapter 13

"Colonel Makepeace? Sorry, sir, but it's time to get up."

A persistent nudging accompanied the words. Makepeace groaned but didn't quite manage to open his eyes. Jesus, it wasn't his turn at watch, yet, was it? Then he remembered that his team had excluded him from watch duty, and when he tried to move his stiff muscles he remembered why.

"Come on, sir, you can do it," said the nagging voice. "Open those baby blues." Andrews. Figured they'd send him to do the dirty deed. Who else besides the absent Lieutenant Johnson would have that much nerve?

"Is it morning already?" Makepeace asked, eyes still closed.

"'Fraid so, sir." Andrews sounded way too cheerful. "Up and at 'em."

"My father used to say that. Do you really want to be compared to him?" Makepeace sat up and looked outside. The misty gray of predawn greeted his eyes. He was a little disappointed to see that even this weak light outshone the glowing plants. The preternatural beauty of last night was gone; the ugly, wet leaves again looked like nothing more than ugly, wet leaves.

It was dripping out there, as usual. He heard the light patter of raindrops on the tarp. "Doesn't it ever stop raining on this planet?"

"Not so's you'd notice," Andrews said. "Need a hand, sir? We should get moving soon."

Makepeace looked around and realized that his men had already cleared out their gear, leaving only his clothes and a first aid kit. They were probably itching to get to his sleeping bag and the tarp, too. How had they managed to do all that without disturbing him? Damn, he must have really been out of it.

He decided to be irritated that they'd just let him sleep and tiptoed around him while they handled all the work. "No, I think I can manage to dress myself," he said sarcastically.

"Yes, sir." Unfazed, Andrews ducked back outside.

Makepeace rebandaged his feet, thigh, and wrists, opting to leave his neck uncovered. He pulled his rain suit and boots on, then, to reassert his independence, he rolled up the sleeping bag himself. The instant he stepped out of the shelter, Warren and Henderson went for the tarp. Andrews took the sleeping bag from him and handed him his knife, his sidearm, and his M4/M203 carbine plus some extra magazines and grenades.

Makepeace settled the comforting weaponry on himself. "Thanks."

"No prob," Andrews said. "Enjoy your breakfast, Colonel." He shoved a canteen and a cold MRE into Makepeace's hands.

Makepeace glanced down at the familiar, olive-drab packaging. The plain, text label read "Chicken in Thai Style Sauce with Yellow and Wild Rice Pilaf." What a wonderful breakfast. Who the hell came up with these things, anyway? "All things considered, I'd rather have pizza."

"Wouldn't we all, sir." Andrews flashed a grin and headed back to the pile of rucksacks and sleeping bags.

His team appeared to have everything in hand. No sense in fighting a working system. He tore open the pouch and spooned the over-processed chicken into his mouth, suddenly unable to get pizza out of his mind. A meat lover's special with the works. Sausage and pepperoni and ham on thick crust with lots of extra sauce and cheese. Loaded with onions, tomatoes, peppers, and black olives. And to wash it all down, a pitcher of ice cold beer.

He chewed thoughtfully, looking around at the muddy excuse for a planet. Maybe tequila slammers, too. Lots of 'em. He swallowed another bite of chicken.

Henderson came over. "How are you feeling this morning, sir?"

"Fine," Makepeace replied. "Much better than last night." It was even the truth. Other than the expected aches and pains, he really did feel better. Sure, his feet, neck, and wrists had their moments, and his thigh complained whenever he forgot about it and put too much weight on it, but the soul-crushing exhaustion and depression of yesterday were gone. Food and sleep were wonderful cure-alls.

Henderson nodded. "Glad to hear it, Colonel. How are your bandages?"

Makepeace exposed a wrist. "Did 'em myself. Like I said, everything's fine."

"What about your neck?"

He touched his throat. "It feels better without anything on it." He really didn't want anything around his neck to remind him of that damned noose.

"Okay." Henderson seemed to understand. "The scabbing looks clean. You be sure to let us know if any problems crop up, though, okay?" He eyed the MRE. "And you better eat all of that."

"Yes, Mother."

Henderson flashed him a grin and went back to help Warren.

Makepeace wolfed down his breakfast, swallowed some water, and hooked the canteen to his belt. Then he found a spot to relieve himself, making sure to stay in clear sight of his men. They'd probably have a collective cow if they lost track of him for even an instant today.

When he finished they were loading up, settling their rucksacks on their backs. Three rucks, he only just realized, not four, just like there had been only three sleeping bags. They must have opted to leave his behind at the aliens' camp. A sensible decision, but it left him at loose ends.

"If anyone's interested, I'm fine now," he announced. "So we'll take turns humping the gear." It wasn't a suggestion.

They stopped and looked at him. "Yes, sir," said Warren with a bob of his head.

"Let's move out," he ordered. "Andrews, you've got point."

They pushed onward. The territory was unfamiliar, but that was only natural, since Andrews was leading them back a different way to try to confuse any pursuers. The gunnery sergeant claimed they were only about five hours away from the Stargate. That surprised Makepeace. Andrews's estimate put them closer to it than they'd been when they were ambushed. Makepeace had been concerned that his near-incapacitation had caused them to lose too much time yesterday. Instead, they'd managed a pretty grueling pace. He must have *_really_* been out of it to miss that.

There was still no sign that the natives were trailing them. That was another surprise. Perhaps he'd gotten his wish, and they and their monster-enemies had all killed one another. Or maybe they were just as unenthusiastic about another close encounter as SG-3 was.

Unfortunately, the Marines still had plenty of other hangers-on. Those nasty red and brown birdlike things, for starters. There were always a few of them in the trees, fluttering from branch to branch on tufted, membranous wings, keeping pace with the men. Makepeace also noticed other flying creatures in a variety of colors. They had similar morphology to their unpleasant cousins, but at least they didn't seem to be interested in humans. They probably weren't meat-eaters, and as such were unaffected by whatever chemical or hormone or whatever the hell it was that he and his men produced that so fascinated the carnivores.

There were also occasional rustlings in the underbrush, as though small animals were following, but nothing ever came out in sight. At least nothing big seemed to be sniffing after them. While they were trading packs during a short rest break he mentioned it.

"There was a big, ugly predator roaming around the woods the other day," Henderson said with a notable shudder. "That was one experience I'd rather not repeat."

"Bad?" Makepeace asked, observing the man's reaction.

"About what you'd expect from a giant green amoeba," Andrews put in. "It tried to have Tommy here for lunch. We splattered it."

"Literally," Henderson said, wincing. "The thing exploded when Mike and Major Warren shot it." He brushed at something only he could see on his sleeve and added, "All over me. Yech."

"Pussy. We all got some of its guts on us."

Warren finally entered the conversation. "In all fairness, Henderson did take the brunt of the...mess," he said, his face twisting in revulsion. "It stank to high heaven, too."

Makepeace stared at all of them. "I remember something like that. Something green and amorphous was trailing me and the aliens, but they managed to drive it off." He paused. "You think it was the same creature?"

"Probably. We're just guessing, Colonel, but we think it might have been territorial," Henderson said. "If that's really the case, then it would have chased off any competitors of comparable size." He paused and looked rueful, and added, "That's assuming the big predators here behave anything like the ones on Earth. And it doesn't take smaller carnivores out of the picture."

"Or mates," Andrews added. "It might share territory with a mate or three."

"God, I hate to think how anything on this planet reproduces, or how many sexes they have."

Makepeace shouldered the pack that Warren had been carrying. "When I was in the pit, I heard gunfire. It's how I knew you guys were still alive. Was that when—?"

"That's the only time we opened fire while we were trailing you, sir," Warren confirmed.

Makepeace nodded. "Sounds like a perfectly good reason to me," he said with a commiserating smile.


	14. Chapter 14

A little over an hour later, they came upon a small area that was free of the obstructing tree trunks. Several trees had fallen here, apparently struck by lightning to judge by the scorch marks and charring on the decomposing wood. The forest canopy had moved into the break overhead, the surrounding trees extending long, ungainly branches to catch the sunlight, closing the opening to the sky.

To one side a pool of violet-tinted liquid, almost perfectly round, nestled back against some trees with dense, low hanging branches and a few bushes covered in wide, fan-shaped red leaves. A rotting log bearing thick slabs of yellow and white fungus rested nearby. Rainwater dripped into the pool from above, making little ripples on its surface.

"This is new," commented Warren. "What do you suppose makes the water purple? Chemicals in the soil?"

"Maybe. Could also be some weird growth, like algae or microbes," said Henderson. "Hell, maybe that fungus or organic decomposition causes the color." He looked at the odd puddle, his curiosity plain. "We should get a sample."

Well, Makepeace thought, that was what they were here for, right? Or it had been, before the ambush. Before the aliens, and the lake...

He mentally shook himself. Past history. They were heading home. No one was chasing them. There was no reason why they couldn't pick up a specimen or two along the way, try to salvage something, however minor, from this disaster of a mission, as long as they were careful and didn't stop too long in any one place.

He looked at Andrews and Warren. "Still no sign we're being followed?"

They both shook their heads. Andrews elaborated, "Not by those aliens, at any rate. Just birds and small animals."

Makepeace watched some bugs flutter near the sergeant. He didn't even seem to notice them anymore. With a certain amount of surprise, Makepeace realized he hadn't noticed the insects recently, either, nor had he paid any attention to the ubiquitous mist filtering through the air, the perpetually dripping water, or the smell of rot. They had definitely been on this planet too long.

He said, "Okay, we'll take a short break. Go ahead and get your sample, but make it quick." He set his pack on the ground, sighing with relief. He wasn't as recovered as he'd thought this morning, if the extra weight was getting to him so soon, especially in this world's lighter gravity. He was already tiring, and his feet were killing him. His wounded thigh had also taken to aching, and he had to work to keep from limping.

Warren started pacing the perimeter, on the lookout for angry natives and hungry whatevers. Makepeace readied his own weapon, as well. He couldn't wait to leave this world behind. He wouldn't admit it aloud, but in the back of his mind lurked the ever-present paranoia that the planet was actively out to get them: that the natives would return and finish what they'd started, or that another of those green blobs might make an appearance, or something even worse would attack. That SG-3 might not make it home alive.

Henderson muttered something about being out of sterile containers, and Andrews said, "I got it." He shouldered his rifle, pulled a specimen bottle out of his rucksack, then knelt by the pool.

Makepeace heard a strange sound overhead, a combination of rustling and—slithering? He turned toward the forest, looked up into the densely leafed trees, but he only saw a few of those ugly bird-things.

Andrews said, "This stuff isn't water. It's thick and sticky, like syrup."

Makepeace turned back as the sergeant straightened, and saw mottled green and brown tentacles uncoil and drop down from the branches over Andrews's unsuspecting head.

"Mike!" he yelled.

Andrews jerked his head around, just as one slender feeler snapped out and struck him. Andrews yelped and slapped a hand to his shoulder. Tentacles wrapped around him and lifted him off the ground into the air. He struggled helplessly, shouting and kicking. The specimen jar dropped down at the edge of the purple puddle.

Makepeace opened up with his carbine, firing blindly into the branches above the tentacles. He couldn't see the creature, but he knew it had to be up there somewhere over Andrews. He fired a few more bursts, vaguely aware that Henderson and Warren were also shooting into the trees.

Andrews fell to the earth, one arm splashing in the sticky purple puddle. Something large and flabby thumped down next to him. The animal's tentacles twitched limply. Several of them lay across Andrews's legs. He made a revolted noise and scrambled away.

In the wake of the gunfire, the forest became deathly silent. Henderson pulled a shaken Andrews to his feet. Makepeace asked, "You okay?"

Miraculously, Andrews still had his pack on. He grimaced and rubbed his shoulder. "The damn thing stung me. Still hurts. You think it was poisonous?" he asked, looking worried.

Henderson looked at him sharply. "Let's see it."

Andrews peeled off his layers so his shoulder could be inspected. Everyone gathered in close, peering at the wound. A puncture mark could be seen, and the surrounding area was a little red and puffy. "How do you feel?" Henderson asked. "Any numbness, shortness of breath, tingling? Anything weird at all?"

Andrews shook his head. "Just a little sore, is all. It feels like a cut."

Henderson frowned and sprayed the wound with antiseptic, then taped a gauze pad over it. "It'll probably be okay, but you be sure to shout out if you notice anything out of the ordinary," he said.

Makepeace asked, "It wasn't a toxin? Then why bother with a sting?"

"Actually, sir, it was probably a neurotoxin of some sort, designed to incapacitate the prey," Henderson said. "But we evolved on a different planet. This is just an educated guess, but I'd say we don't have the right biochemical receptors for the toxin to act on." He added, "That's probably why that spider bite didn't affect you, either, sir, assuming it injected any poison in the first place."

"I hate hearing all those 'probably's'," Makepeace said.

Henderson looked apologetic. "Best thing we can do is keep an eye on both of you and get back to Earth ASAP. Let the doctors give you two a good, thorough exam. Check out blood and fluid chemistries, that sort of thing. They'll also probably keep you under observation for a while, just in case."

Makepeace winced. As he pulled his tee-shirt back on, Andrews growled, "You're in this with us, you know. We're all covered with alien bug bites."

Now it was Henderson's turn to grimace. Warren groaned, "Jesus, I hadn't thought of that. Fraiser's gonna lock us all in quarantine and throw away the key."

Makepeace made an unhappy noise and tried to find a bright spot in all this. "So you're saying it looks like we should be pretty much immune to the poisonous animals here?"

Henderson shook his head. "I don't know, sir. So far, the toxins we've come across haven't been a problem, but I suppose it's possible that others might be similar enough to Earth varieties to affect us. For all I know, something really benign here, like spit, could be deadly poison to us, and so far we've just been lucky."

Makepeace grunted. That wasn't particularly comforting. He turned away, toward the dead whatzit. The creature had stopped twitching and lay still in the mud. He cautiously approached it and nudged it with the toe of his boot. It didn't move.

Warren joined him. "A tree octopus?" he asked.

Makepeace shrugged, unable to take his eyes off the weird animal. "Close enough for government work, I guess."

Octopus wasn't quite the right description for the thing. More like a strange cross between a squid and a Portuguese man-of-war, Makepeace thought. The animal's mottled body was big, about man-sized, and shaped like a lopsided hourglass. Spiny ridges ran along its length. Its widest end held clusters of different kinds of tentacles, some ribbon-like, some muscular, some mere threads. A flexible, toothy mouth lurked at the base of the tentacles, and just above them was a ring of eyestalks. A few curly tendrils projected from the smaller half of the hourglass, at what Makepeace supposed was the top of the animal. It certainly didn't qualify as a head in his book, though.

"Charming specimen," Warren said.

One side of the creature had been torn open by the bullets. Blue-gray blood and stinking guts mixed with the mud. Makepeace saw an odd, purplish sac in the mess, and prodded it with the muzzle of his carbine. The sac popped, and thick purple syrup oozed out.

"Guess now we know where that purple liquid came from," he remarked, speculating. "I suppose it secretes the stuff as a kind of lure, like a sundew or a pitcher plant does back home. When something comes to check it out, bam, it's lunch. Probably smells and tastes good to the fauna around here."

"This thing isn't a plant," Warren protested, although he didn't look too sure about what he thought it was.

"So? A lure's a lure. Animals set traps, too." Makepeace bent to retrieve the specimen bottle of purple syrup. No sense leaving that behind. They'd earned it.

After another glance at the bizarre tree squid, he turned away and asked Andrews, "You still feeling okay? Ready to get moving?"

Andrews nodded. "No problem, sir. Whatever that poison was, it ain't bothering me." He made a disgusted face. "Let's just get out of here."

Henderson was staring at the creature. "It's a shame we can't take that back with us. We'd be on the science boys' A-list for life, if we gave them such a nice present."

"Too big to carry," Makepeace said. "Besides, I don't want anyone touching that thing. Just because it's dead doesn't mean it's safe. Think of jellyfish." As a sop, he added, "You should get some pictures before we take off, though."

Warren picked up his pack before Makepeace could reach it. Painfully aware that he still wasn't in the best of condition, Makepeace opted not to say anything. Henderson got some photos, then they started on their way again. As they left the clearing, Makepeace looked over his shoulder at the dead tree squid. Several of those red and brown bird-things had gathered at the carcass and were gorging themselves on the meat. Before he turned his head back, a few more fluttered down to join the feast.

So those nasty things were carrion scavengers. They'd probably been following SG-3 in the hope that something big and mean would nail the delicious-smelling humans, so they could pick the entrails and bones.

Lovely. Just lovely.


	15. Chapter 15

After that last close encounter, Makepeace formally forbade any further specimen gathering, even though he was sure that his men had already had the same idea, anyway. "That part of the mission is officially over," he announced. "I don't care how weird or interesting it looks. No distractions. We're just gonna concentrate on getting home in one piece." He should have said that in the first place. This mission was unsalvageable. Fuck it.

No one offered even a hint of protest. Big surprise. They'd had it. He'd more than had it. This horror show of a planet had beaten up on all of them, and they were all more than ready to leave it behind forever.

The rest of the march through the forest was uneventful, although not without its stresses and strains. More scavenger-birds followed, and the forest was full of the usual, unnerving rustlings that warned the Marines they were not alone.

In spite of the unwelcome escort, they made it back to the Stargate without further incident. Makepeace could hardly believe it. Then again, they hadn't had much trouble at the beginning of the mission, either. Sure, mystery animals had followed them around, and they'd been eaten alive the whole time by insects, but things hadn't gotten really rough until they had penetrated a significant distance into the forest.

By some unfathomable alien whim, the Stargate was located in an odd, almost perfectly circular area that was less dense than the surrounding forest. You couldn't call it a clearing, but there was definitely something that kept the normally indefatigable vegetation under control. The trees and brush were thinner here, with the mud around the Stargate's pedestal free even of algae, moss, and fungus. Perhaps the native flora didn't like the taste of naquada.

Thinner trees meant even more rain got through the leaves to the ground—and anyone who happened to be standing there. Not that Makepeace cared anymore. He almost couldn't remember what it felt like to be dry.

He and Andrews stood on guard while Warren and Henderson dialed the DHD and sent the GDO signal. Fortunately, nothing decided to take a last stab at them. No angry natives, no big green blobs, no tree squids. Makepeace saw more scavenger-birds in the trees, heard rain falling and odd noises in the woods outside the weird Stargate-imposed boundary, but that was all.

Just like when they'd first arrived.

Henderson used the remote to send the MALP back to Earth. Makepeace wondered if any of its varied sensors had recorded anything more interesting than rain, ugly trees, and strange noises. He shrugged mentally. That was for the science geeks to worry about. Doubtless they'd be orgasmic over this mission, however disastrous and worthless it seemed to him.

The MALP was through, it was time to go home. They all looked at one another, a little dumbly. It appeared everyone shared Makepeace's surprise at their survival. It just seemed too easy, after everything that had happened.

Makepeace blinked and said, "Let's get off this mudball."

He expected to hear a crack or two in response, maybe from Andrews, but no one uttered a word. In silence, they walked into the event horizon.

Makepeace's first step back on Earth turned into an ungainly stumble. He hadn't taken the sudden transition from P1Y-233's weaker gravity to Earth's normal gravity into account, and hadn't put enough energy into lifting his foot. As a result, he'd caught his toe on the ramp and tripped over his own feet.

He was in good company, since no one else on SG-3 had thought of that, either, and they were also having the same kind of problems. Which was odd, in a way, since they'd had similar difficulties with coordination until they'd become accustomed to the gravity on P1Y-233. You'd think the reverse problem would have occurred to someone on the team, but apparently it hadn't. They all jostled among themselves, holding onto one another to stay upright until they found their balance.

Makepeace stood on the ramp with his men, feeling his normal weight settle in on him like a sack full of lead. His body felt clumsy and awkward, and too heavy. Strident noise and bright lights assaulted his eyes and ears. He stared around the gateroom, slipping into disorientation.

After the misty forest, with its muted sounds and gray, filtered daylight, the SGC's harsh fluorescent lighting, blaring klaxons, and flashing warning lights came as a brutal, almost physical shock. Just a few seconds ago he and his men had been the only humans on an entire planet; now, he was surrounded by hard-faced security personnel, busy technicians, and a cacophony of demanding voices. He just stood there, feeling tired and wishing everyone would quiet down or better yet, go away.

He took a deep breath. Even breathing seemed harder here on Earth.

The noise levels actually seemed to increase. The SFs moved aside, so the techs could roll the MALP off the ramp, out of SG-3's way.

He shook himself out of his daze, and in an attempt at normalcy started walking down the ramp. He again misjudged his steps and nearly took a header. Under his full weight, his injured feet and thigh complained even worse than before. Andrews, looking none too steady himself, braced him until he could stand on his own.

"We were only over there for three days," Warren murmured. He looked a little wild-eyed.

"We'll readjust," Makepeace said. "It was a rough transition, that's all." No shit. Somehow, after surviving three days on Hellworld, he'd expected home to be more homelike, more welcoming. Not so jarring. In a way, it felt a little threatening, even alien.

A voice boomed out over the loudspeakers. He looked up, trying to listen. General Hammond stood at the control room window, talking into the microphone.

"SG-3, you're home a day early," the general was saying. "What happened? Are you people all right?"

Makepeace took a step forward, this time managing to keep his balance. "We're fine, sir." His raised voice sounded strange in his ears. "But the planet was a wash." He heard one of his men groan at his choice of words.

Hammond frowned. "You all look like something the cat dragged in."

Makepeace considered that. SG-3 certainly looked disreputable. They were all exhausted, scruffy, soaking wet and muddy, with every inch of exposed skin covered in bug bites, bruises, cuts and scrapes. They stank to high heaven. His men had a glazed look in their eyes, and he was sure his own expression matched theirs. Incongruously, he smiled. "Make that something the cat dragged in, batted around for an hour or two, swallowed whole then hacked back up like a hairball, and you'll be closer to the mark, General."

Hammond gave them a long, measuring look. "Can you people get to the infirmary under your own power, or should I call for a medical team?"


	16. Chapter 16

Three weeks later, SG-3 sat around a table at Blackjack Pizza, greedily stuffing their faces. Colonel Makepeace had cheerfully announced that he was springing for as much pizza as his teammates could wolf down, as much beer as they could guzzle, and also that he was taking care of cab fare. The team had finally been given the "all clear" to return to their regular duties and normal lives, and they all wanted to celebrate their continued success at staying alive a little while longer.

Listening to his comrades' jovial, irrelevant chatter, Major Warren took a huge bite of a slice of pizza loaded with sausage, extra cheese, mushrooms, and bell peppers. He washed it down with several gulps of a brand-name draft beer. Normally he was something of a beer snob, but this stuff was drinkable. Besides, it was free.

Warren wasn't about to forego any celebration—or half decent food—after three weeks under house arrest. Technically, it had been referred to as "medical observation" but it worked out the same. They had been stuck in the base infirmary until Doctor Fraiser was satisfied that they weren't going to turn into alien monsters or spread extraterrestrial diseases.

Nobody's tests had come back clean. According to Fraiser, they had all had "unidentifiable substances" in their blood (and other bodily fluids), and so they stayed under observation until they were clear. And that had been that.

The medical tests had been interminable. Warren had gotten real tired of being every med tech's pincushion. Nor had he been thrilled with daily skin scrapings and peeing in cups, and as for stool and mucous samples, the less said, the better.

There had also been a series of psych evaluations that could only be described as obnoxious. Soon after the official debriefing had been completed, the mission reports written and filed, and the first physical screenings performed, Chief Head Shrinker McKenzie took to stopping by to enliven SG-3's tedium with some therapeutic harassment. Supposedly, he had just wanted to be sure that they were okay with their various encounters with hungry beasties straight from a horror novel, and their uncomfortable transition back to Earth life.

And really, Warren had told him, they were. After evil mind-controlling worms posing as gods, warrior-incubators for said worms, lost human civilizations, talking crystals, mirrors to parallel universes, and countless other weirdnesses he'd seen or heard about in the short time he'd been stationed here, why should a mission beset with rain, light gravity, tentacled monsters, and a giant blob be considered a mental health issue? Everyone was fine, after all. No one had gotten eaten or anything. McKenzie had nodded sagely when told this, and said he'd always be available if Warren ever needed to talk. Feel free to call any time.

Jerk.

Warren preferred to keep his nightmares to himself. He had answered every question put to him in as brief a manner as possible, had taken the stupid tests, had jumped through every hoop presented to him. Finally, McKenzie had decided he was as well-adjusted as anyone assigned to an SGC field team could be—which Warren suspected translated as "not very" to the Chief Head Shrinker's way of thinking—and left him alone. He knew from some commiserating bitch sessions that Andrews and Henderson had had similar experiences, although McKenzie had harassed them a little longer due to those unfortunate incidents with the blob and the tree squid.

Warren chewed his pizza thoughtfully and snuck a glance at the colonel. Makepeace was holding a beer mug and laughing at something Lieutenant Johnson was telling him, seemingly without a care in the world. Pink scars, faint bruises, and a few lingering scabs still marked his neck and wrists. But for those small traces, he looked the very picture of physical and psychological health. You'd never know that just a few weeks ago he'd been glorified fish bait on a planet several thousand light years away.

Unfortunately for him, that very experience meant he hadn't been able to escape from McKenzie's clutches as easily as the rest of SG-3. Counseling sessions were mandatory for anyone who'd been a prisoner for any length of time, and all Makepeace could do was put up with them. Which he had done. With what Warren could only describe as extreme tolerance. Although the facade must have slipped at least once, since one day Warren had observed McKenzie hightailing it out of the private office they used for their "little chats" with undignified speed. Makepeace had sauntered out behind him, wearing an utterly bland expression on his face.

Although dying of curiosity, Warren still hadn't worked up the nerve to ask. Maybe if Makepeace got drunk enough tonight...

Nah, better not. Warren valued his skin. He turned to Lieutenant Johnson and asked, "So, when's that cast coming off?"

Johnson shrugged. "Fraiser says it depends on what the X-rays show. Probably not for another few weeks, then on to physical therapy," he added with a comical shudder. "Man, I really hate physical therapy. All physical therapists are sadists."

"You should know, you've spent enough time with them," Andrews said unsympathetically. "Especially, oh, what was her name?" He tapped his head, pretending to think. "Karen. Right."

"This is different."

"Yep, it sure is. This time Karen's really gonna put the screws to you, Lieutenant. Shouldn't have split up with her so soon. Bet she'll really work that broken wing of yours back into shape."

Johnson groaned and drained his mug.

Makepeace patted his shoulder consolingly. "Just as well. We can't have your rifle arm all wimpy and out of whack, now, can we?"

"Looks like you're stuck with us for a while longer, Major," Henderson said around a mouthful of half-chewed food. "Think you'll survive?"

"After everything else this month?" Warren laughed. "Not a problem!"

"Such confidence is reassuring to hear," Makepeace drawled. "Considering that you're gonna be the ranking officer for a while."

"Sir?" Warren stared at him.

"I'm taking some leave. Shrink's orders," Makepeace said, curling his lip.

"Shrink's revenge, more like," Johnson chortled, looking perversely pleased to see another medical victim. "I'm not normally one to say I told you so—"

"Yes, you are."

"—but I told you so."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Makepeace turned back to Warren. "Lucky you, you're gonna be in charge of these hooligans for a while."

"Huh?" Warren said. He had been hoping to hear about Makepeace's little scene with McKenzie, and was disappointed at the change in subject. Then his brain caught up with his ears. "What?" he said, sounding little more intelligent. He looked around the table. The others all looked back at him with varying degrees of speculation and amusement. Obviously, this news wasn't a surprise to anyone but him.

Makepeace added, "Don't worry, you won't be undermanned. We'll get Hammond to scrounge up another replacement for that loser." He jerked his thumb at Johnson, who made a disrespectful face back at him. "He'll have to, if he expects you to go on a mission next week."

Andrews said slyly, "Maybe you can raid SG-5 again, Colonel."

"Oh, sure, that's a good idea. Hopkins'll hate me."

Johnson laughed. "Like he doesn't already?"

Makepeace rolled his eyes. "Hate me more," he amended.

"What do you care? You outrank him."

Warren ignored the cheerful abuse of his regular CO, and focused on the more important issue. "Another mission?" he asked. "Already?"

"Yup," Makepeace confirmed. "P2A-509. Supposed to be a nice place, too. Balmy climate, palm trees, blue skies..."

Warren said, "You make it sound like a vacation spot."

"Maybe General Hammond feels sorry for us," Henderson suggested.

Andrews snorted. "Yeah, right."

Makepeace said, "Come on, appreciate it. We don't usually get the nice places."

Truer words. Warren knew SG-3 tended to draw assignments to suspected Goa'uld strongholds or weird alien planets like ol' Slime World. A lot of combat missions and SAR. Not tropical paradises.

Andrews folded his arms over his chest. "Another 'milk run,' I suppose?"

"So they tell me." Makepeace shrugged.

"That's what they said about the last one, too."

"Bad attitude." Makepeace said to Warren, "Feel up to riding herd on these insubordinate reprobates for a few weeks?"

Warren glanced at the reprobates in question. They gazed back innocently. Guess they didn't class him as the FNG anymore. He nodded to himself, looked Makepeace directly in the eye, and grinned.

"I always enjoy a challenge, sir," he said.

_***** End *****_

_June, 2003_


End file.
